Baby girl
by SashaLikaMusica
Summary: Brittana has grown up and settled in New York; Brittany is a professional dancer, and Santana has found her calling as a social worker. When Santana mentions her new case – an abused young woman named Quinn who acts like a toddler – she finds that Brittany is set on adopting the teenager, and that she's about to become a mother whether she's ready for it or not. Non-sexual ageplay
1. One

**A/N: Just let me start off by saying that this is the most unconventional story I've ever written, so I really don't have a very clear idea of what I'm doing. This was born from a prompt: "Brittany and Santana are grown up; Brittany is a dancer and Santana works for the government. When Santana encounters Quinn at work and tells her girlfriend about it, Brittany is determined to take Quinn home. Ageplay!Quinn." **

**So, yeah, there's that. I have absolutely no idea if I'm doing this justice or not. I feel like I'm making it all out of character, and I've never written ageplay. So I guess we'll see where this leads; I'm completely at the mercy of the storyline, here. **

**Disclaimer: While I wish that I came up with Glee, I unfortunately am not only younger than many of the actors, but also spend my days in a sorority house and my nights taking care of my daughter. Definitely not up to script-writing standard here yet.**

**Warnings: I don't know how to label this. Quinn acts much younger than she actually is, and is babied by the people around her. Consensual, non-sexual ageplay. And, hello? Brittana? They're bound to get up to something inappropriate whenever other people aren't around . . . or even when they are . . .**

**Let's roll.**

_"Those who do not weep do not see."- Victor Hugo_

Santana didn't glance up from her paperwork as keys jingled in the lock, the muted sound of the door shutting in the front hall, letting her know that Brittany was home. She didn't even move when the tall dancer entered the room a few moments later, pausing to drop her purse on the table before making her way over to the Latina. Brittany only needed to spare the paper-strewn coffee table a single glance to know that the girl hadn't moved from her spot on the couch since she had left early that morning.

"Hey babe," the blonde greeted cheerfully, swooping down to press a kiss to her girlfriend's cheek. Santana mumbled something indistinguishable in response, and felt the dancer's hands rub soothingly against the base of her neck. Brittany chuckled slightly, kneading the woman's shoulders through the material of her hooded Cheerios sweatshirt – the one she had "borrowed" from Brittany seven years ago, and that she only wore when she was particularly tired or stressed. "Tough day?"

Santana hummed, allowing her tensed body to relax into her girlfriend's touch, and leaned up for a kiss. She pouted when Brittany pulled away after only a few moments, turning around in her seat to look the blonde in the eye.

"What?" she protested sulkily, her lips pursing in an adorable pout that had Brittany grinning from ear to ear. She couldn't help herself; despite Santana's attempt to retain her reputation for being an emotionless badass, she was still so cute when she sulked. Nevertheless, Brittany could sense something bothering her girl, and was determined to coax it out before she got too distracted.

"Something's bothering you," she said simply, not bothering to phrase it as a question. There was a reason she could read Santana better than anybody else, and Santana had stopped denying it years ago. Instead, she unconsciously let her features slide back into a slight frown at Brittany's words, eyebrows knitting in an obvious show of anxiety.

"It's this new case," she explained with a sigh, turning back to riffle through the papers now littering the couch cushions and carpet as well as the designated table.

"The teenager?" Santana nodded, shuffling through the various files to her right.

"It's more complicated than we thought. We just figured that we could remove her from the area and place her in foster care, but it turns out that she's actually eighteen," she clarified as Brittany cleared a place to sit beside her.

"But that's good, isn't it? That means the parents can't force her to stay with them, right?" Brittany pressed, leaning over to read the file now spread across Santana's lap.

"Well, yes, but it also means that the state has no legal obligation to help her. The court could decide to emancipate her, or in the worst-case scenario, it could rule in favor of confinement, since she has no money to support herself."

"Confinement, like prison?"

"Exactly," Santana said, her face grim.

"But that's not fair!" Brittany protested. "They can't just rescue her from those people and then send her to prison just because she can't pay to support herself!" She folded her arms indignantly and leaned back, unwilling to read any more. The more she understood that Santana felt a personal obligation to continue with her job, the less she had patience for its flaws. Social work was supposed to _help_ people, not screw them over.

Santana sighed, turning to face her outraged girlfriend, glasses pushed halfway down her nose so that she was forced to peer over the top of the frames at the fury etched into the blonde's face.

"I know, Britt-Britt, it's not fair," she agreed, reaching to tuck a stray wisp of hair behind Brittany's ear. "That's why I'm working so hard at this. I've been on the phone with our lawyers all morning, and I think I've finally convinced them that confinement isn't the way to go. In any other case, I'd vote for emancipation, but the problem is, even if we can get the government to provide suitable living conditions, she's not mentally capable of taking care of herself," she explained sadly. Brittany's eyes switched from angry to curious in a matter of seconds.

"What's wrong with her?" she queried, sitting up slightly, her back perfectly straight. Santana frowned in thought, attempting to figure out how to phrase her explanation.

"It's not that anything's _wrong_ with her, exactly," she said finally, the words slow to leave her mouth. "It's . . . it's like a form of escapism. She's eighteen, but she's been abused from such a young age that she reverts to acting like a child."

"I act like a child sometimes," Brittany objected.

"But you're a fully functioning adult," Santana elaborated gently. "You just get excited about things easily. With this girl, it's – it's like she's stuck being the age she was before all the abuse started. She's capable of acting mature when she needs to, but she prefers to act young; it makes her feel safe, because at that age, she _was_ safe. You see?" she asked gently, raising an eyebrow in question. Brittany nodded slowly, biting her lower lip thoughtfully.

"I think so," she said hesitantly. Then a question seemed to occur to her, as she straightened up even more, her eyes bright with wonder. "Can I see a picture?" she asked eagerly, eyes scanning the various case papers in Santana's lap. Santana chuckled at her enthusiasm and searched through the files before handing her a picture, deciding that the rules about privacy could be bended for someone who didn't work with the department. Just once.

For several minutes, Brittany thoroughly examined the black and white printed court photo, curiously scanning the pretty-featured face, softly curled light hair, and wide, innocent eyes. Once she had made a thorough inspection, she looked back up, locking eyes with her brunette wife.

"What's her name?" Santana exhaled, contemplating. It was enough that she had shown the picture – she really shouldn't break another rule.

"I probably shouldn't tell you . . ." she began, only to be interrupted by Brittany, who had gone into full-scale puppy-eye mode.

"Come on, Tana," she pleaded, eyes strategically wide and hopeful. "I'm not going to tell anyone. Can't you just whisper it to me? Please?" Santana laughed at the blonde's antics, but gave in at her last plea, unable to resist the beseeching look her girl was throwing her.

"Fine," she laughed, reaching over to whack at Brittany's arm playfully. "Her name is Lucy. Lucy Quinn Fabray. She likes to be known as Quinn, but the department insists we use her legal first name for professional 'issues,' as they call them." Santana rolled her eyes at the term, unable to take any of the professional formalities seriously. Brittany giggled as well, but only slightly. Her eyes were fixed on the girl – Lucy – in the photograph. It was only a traditional, unflattering mug shot, but something in the young woman's eyes reached out to her, snagging her attention with an unrelenting tug.

It wasn't getting late; it wasn't even nighttime, but something in Brittany knew that this girl was going to haunt her tonight.

Santana sensed her girlfriend's interest in the story behind the case, but swiftly decided that this was enough for one night. Every last particle of her attention had gone to the subject all day, and as a result her energy was almost completely drained. It would be all she could do to take a bath and haul herself down the hall into bed for a long night of exhausted attempts at sleep.

But Brittany had other plans of distraction; so caught up in her stressful train of thought, Santana had barely noticed Brittany moving closer, or the gentle pressure of the dancer's lips creeping along her jawline towards her ear. Her body registered the jolt in her lower abdomen before her mind did, and before she could protest she was leaning into the blonde's now wandering soft hands, letting out a low moan as the last bit of tenseness drained from her body. She knew this was another one of Brittany's ways of easing the stress away, and that if she allowed her to continue, tonight would be slow and loving, replacing sleeplessness with a different yet extremely effective form of distraction. She also knew she only had to say the word, and Brittany would stop; they could spend the night cuddled close and reading quietly to each other aloud instead.

But as Brittany's hands and lips moved lower, Santana decided that this form of distraction was going to be _completely_ acceptable.

* * *

"San?"

"Mmmm." Santana didn't glance up; she continued to trace delicate patterns across Brittany's skin with her fingertips, the pressure so light that it was barely noticeable. Her eyes traveled the expanse of flawless skin, up the smoothly tightened planes of abs to the fragile structure of a wrist; the soft contours of an inner elbow, pausing briefly for respite at the sturdy collarbone and defining neck before slipping back down to watch her own fingers trace patterns on an inner arm. She was consumed, utterly enveloped, in all things Brittany. Her scent, her voice, the feeling of her skin – Santana was drunk on her very presence.

They had been together for _thirteen_ _years_, and still Santana could not grasp the fact that Brittany had chosen _her_ – sarcastic, irritable, stony _her_. Somehow Brittany had seen in Santana what so many others had not; she had gripped her with her fingertips and prized her open at the seams, and dug relentlessly at her exterior until she unearthed what she had known for certain lay there. Clawing her way in, she had discovered everything that Santana possessed yet hid away from the world; all of her faults and flaws and graces.

She had turned Santana inside out, and Santana had let her. She had _let_ her see her for what she was; rough around the edges, blurry in parts – her empathy for the lost and abused, the injured and forgotten; her unshakably strong maternal instincts; her secret love for cats; her pity for and need to aid the fragile; her all-consuming terror of the dark. Brittany saw her for what she was, and Santana knew that with her, she didn't have the strength or inclination to fight it.

Brittany was her gravity. She was what grounded her; kept her from flying away with no lifeline. She let Santana run, knowing that every time, she would be the one to pull her irresistibly back to earth. She was the single force that had the power to rip her to pieces, and hold her broken fragments together, both at the same time.

Santana was at her complete and utter mercy, and she found that there was no one else to whom she would rather bend.

"Santana."

"Hmm?"

"Santana, look at me." The Latina obeyed, though gradually, pausing to press a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the blonde's shoulder before settling above her, resting her weight on her forearms, framing Brittany's head. Brittany's blue eyes held that steady, serious look they always got when she had been considering something very hard for hours, and had just made up her mind. Even still, Santana couldn't resist bending down to kiss her softly before pulling back, dark eyes playful yet attentive.

"Santana, be serious, I want to talk to you about something." Brittany's tone was reproving, though still gentle in its timbres.

"I'm ready to listen," Santana said solemnly, though her eyes still showed a subtle hint of impishness. Brittany resisted the urge to roll her eyes – she knew that her girlfriend would never purposefully disregard her, but Santana's voice was like liquid sex, and she knew that it wouldn't be at all surprising for the Latina to not hear a single word she said. She decided to speak anyways, and administer a gentle slap if the girl's hands started to wander.

"I've been thinking . . ." she trailed off, unsure how to phrase her jumbled, scattered thoughts. She needed to present this in the proper light; otherwise, Santana would be sure to freak.

The brunette brought her fingertips beneath her chin, and gently raised her head slightly to look her dead in the eye.

"Britt, whatever it is, you can say it to me," she assured her, stroking a strand of blonde hair before dragging her hand down to caress a soft cheek. "Talk to me, baby." Brittany took a deep breath, gathering her courage to say what she needed to get off her mind.

"What do you think about adoption?" she let out in a rush. Santana froze, her thumb going still where it had been rubbing dainty circles across her hipbone. Closing her eyes, Brittany froze, feeling the warm body above her go tense. She bit her lip, hoping that she hadn't said the wrong thing, counting the seconds that ticked by, the countdown to when Santana would flip out or run. She was sure the Latina would fly away; it almost always happened when she came under pressure or encountered something completely foreign, so it came as a surprise to Brittany when the thumb on her hip began to move once more. Though Santana remained tense, Brittany could feel her let out a slow breath, and opened her eyes anxiously to see her girlfriend's features completely expressionless, though displaying no apparent signs of panic.

"What brought this about?" she asked at last, fighting to keep her voice calm. Brittany bit her lower lip nervously, unsure of how to proceed. She decided to ask, first, just to be sure . . .

"Are you . . .?"

"I'm not going to run, Britt," Santana interrupted her, her voice edgy, but not panicked. Brittany narrowed her eyes at her, attempting to decipher if she was telling the truth or not. She hadn't seen Santana this stony in a long time.

Santana forced a weak, lips tight and thin, but she made an effort.

"Relax, Britt. I'm just surprised, okay? Explain where this is coming from, please," she said softly, rubbing a thumb across Brittany's cheekbone. The blonde hesitated, hating the blankness she saw in the girl's eyes, but continued carefully, choosing her words with greater caution than she had in many years.

"I was thinking about Lucy. Quinn. You know, your case," she began slowly, watching the Latina's face for any sign of change. She stopped, searching for any suddenly revealed emotions, but Santana merely nodded.

"Go on." Her voice was still flat, and Brittany could tell that she was struggling to retain her composure.

"I . . . Santana if this is bothering you, we can just forget I ever said it," she finally blurted out wildly, her words a scrambled mess for their haste and descending fear. "Just tell me what you're thinking, please?" She realized that she was begging, and that she sounded whiny and pitiful, but she couldn't form proper thoughts when Santana was so tense as she was.

At her words, Santana's body relaxed, and she rolled off of Brittany, causing the dancer to panic for a moment before she realized that the brunette was only moving to lie beside her, facing her. Twining her own fingers around thinner, pale ones, Santana brought their joined hands up between their bodies to press against Brittany's shoulder. She smiled, and this time it was genuine, despite the fact that a hint of uncertainty lay behind her gaze. Brittany felt the radiating warmth that always came with Santana's smiles, and calmed slightly with the realization that Santana hadn't gone into a full-blown panic.

"Baby, calm down," she spoke soothingly, untangling one of her hands to wrap around Brittany's waist, pulling her closer. "I told you, I'm fine. Just tell me what's going on." Her voice was soothing now, no longer leveled; Brittany could hear the familiar cadences return; the nasal quality to "a" sounds; the rounded, easy way she spoke her vowels, and the low purr that caught in her throat at the ends of her sentences. She smiled back, the movement of her lips tentative, and reassured by the feel of the warmth pressing into her from Santana's body, tried again.

"I was wondering what your thoughts were on adoption." She was back at square one, ignoring her previous, garbled statement about Lucy and the court case – after all, Santana had seemed to take it as a reason for the thought process instead of a possibility. Santana's eyes went soft and slightly sad, a tiny smile flitting across her face.

"Baby," she murmured, drawing Brittany closer to nestle her warmly in her arms. "Why are you worrying about that now? We've got years to think about this. I know we're twenty-seven, and that feels old to us, but we're settled, we know we'll get married eventually – why are you thinking about this?" Her dark eyes were concerned, sincere, as they searched the blonde carefully. Brittany's heart warmed at how alert her girlfriend was being, but she struggled to speak.

"I wasn't thinking about that part of it," she countered hesitantly. "I was thinking about – about Quinn." Santana nodded, stroking her hair gently.

"What about Quinn?" she asked. Her voice was low and careful.

"I want to help her." Santana blinked, her only visible sign of surprise. After a moment, she brought up the courage to ask.

"How do you mean?" she asked evenly, meaning to be casual, but her tone came out as somewhat nervous. Brittany cleared her throat and spoke to Santana's chest.

"I was thinking about . . . adopting her," she said finally. There was silence. When she gathered the nerve to look up into her girlfriend's face, she saw a weary grimness in Santana's face that gave her heart a twang to think that she had caused it.

"I . . . Brittany . . . that would be too complicated," Santana got out awkwardly. She was now avoiding her girlfriend's gaze. Neither girl liked the silence that hung over them like a settled weight, but neither quite knew how to break it. Santana was focused on a point somewhere behind and above Brittany's head; Brittany was watching in worry and slight frustration.

"Why?" she finally asked. Santana's eyes snapped back down to her, before she abruptly rolled to the side of the bed, scrambled to her feet, and began to fumblingly search for her clothes. Brittany struggled to sit up, not bothering to keep the sheet wrapped around her naked upper body. They had kept privacy to a maximum in their first years as a couple, but such formalities seemed unnecessary now – even laughable, considering all they had seen together.

"Santana, why is it too complicated?" she pushed, fighting to untangle her legs from the twisted mess of sheets. Santana didn't look up as she answered, yanking a shirt over her head so much force that she nearly ripped it down the seams.

"It's just too complicated." Brittany got up to kneel in the center of the bed, free from the confining material.

"What's so complicated about wanting to provide for someone who needs it? That's always been your forte, Santana, so tell me why this is so difficult!" she demanded, her voice growing louder in an attempt to be heard. Santana flinched slightly at the volume, but otherwise showed no response as she continued to fling clothing on every which way. In the back of her mind, Brittany was baffled as to how any of it was actually ending up on the correct parts of her body.

"Santana!" Even she winced at the sharpness of her voice. It had been a long time since either of them had actually yelled at each other, and she realized why – they were both possessors of such strong opinions that raised voices were overwhelming. Nevertheless, she was determined that this conversation wasn't going to be ignored. "Santana, listen to me!" At last, the brunette halted in her wild escape attempt, hands on her hips in a manner that hadn't made a reappearance in years.

"What, Britt?" she asked harshly. "What do you want me to do? I told you, it's too complicated. Now let it be." But Brittany wasn't going to let it go. She needed to have this out, now.

"Santana, you know perfectly well that no one will be able to provide properly for that girl!" she exclaimed loudly, extracting herself from the bed to stand facing her girlfriend on the other side. Casting her glance around for an article of clothing, she caught up Santana's oversized tee shirt that she wore to bed on cold nights and tugged it over her head. She felt ridiculous standing with her bare legs completely showing and her cleavage covered up to her neck.

"Think about it, Santana!" she insisted, her words growing in volume until Santana was squinting uncomfortably. "Are you really just going to trust any random family with this girl? She's special!"

"_I know she's special, Britt!"_ Santana finally broke in, even going so far as to stamp her foot on the cream-carpeted floor. Brittany had no idea how she managed to find both her boots. "She needs extra care, beyond what anybody can handle. Do you think I'm going to trust her to just anybody? I've been working on this case for weeks! I've combed this entire fucking city for somebody who could take care of her properly. Don't talk to me like I don't know what this involves, Brittany; it's my _job_ to do this." She jerked the bedroom door open, somehow miraculously dressed from head to toe in sensible, fashionable clothing, and flung herself down the hallway.

Brittany scrambled after her, tripping and sliding down the narrow hallway in her bare feet, clutching her arms to her chest. She reached the living room in time to see Santana heading for the entry hall, and followed her, darting past the coffee table so swiftly that the scattered paperwork fluttered to the floor. Ignoring it completely, she beat Santana to the door and grabbed the back of her coat, stopping her.

"Santana, give me one reason, give me _one good reason_ why this can't work. I know she's difficult, Santana, but I want kids. A kid. _Any_ kid. I want to be a mom; we've talked about this. And I want to save Quinn. We don't lead hectic lives, we're financially stable, we're patient, we're good with kids, and we have like ten extra rooms in this damn apartment. So you turn around right now and tell me why I can't." Brittany could hardly believe that the voice, so low and dangerous, was actually coming from her.

Santana didn't turn, and when she spoke, Brittany was startled by the sound of her voice; she could hear the unshed tears that filled her girl's eyes.

"I can't do this right now, Brittany."

"Santana Maria Lopez, don't you walk away from me!"

The front door shut with a bang. Inside, Brittany stared at the smooth wood in defeat and disbelief, unable to comprehend that a conversation that had been going so calmly had so quickly gone awry.

Outside, the tears began to overflow.

* * *

It was nearly three in the morning when the quiet, almost inaudible knock sounded. Brittany jumped where she sat with her back against the door, phone in hand as she contemplated whether or not to call the police. She scrambled to her feet and fumbled with the knob before wrenching the door open, to reveal Santana standing motionless on the landing as if she had never raised a hand to knock. The cold winter air flowed in with startling force, causing Brittany to shiver and clamp her legs shut against the freezing cold. Santana didn't raise her head; when she spoke, the sound of her words was swept away by the snowy wind.

"I'm ready to come back in." Brittany stared at her, contemplating how to answer.

"What if I say you can't?" She didn't know where the words had come from; they had escaped her mouth without her knowledge. However, once they were out, she couldn't help but agree with herself. She had been left alone for nearly the entire night with absolutely no hint as to where her girlfriend was, or why she had left. She was absolutely furious. Santana had scared the shit out of her.

Santana raised an eyebrow – the only part of her face that Brittany could see from this angle.

"It's my house." Shit. She had her caught.

With a sigh, Brittany opened the door wider, gesturing to the Latina to enter.

"Fine. But quickly; you're letting the cold air in." Part of her couldn't understand why she was being so unforgiving – you're Brittany Pierce! You forgive everybody! it was screaming – but she was cold, angry, and emotionally exhausted; she had no room for patience.

Santana stepped in silently, and walked past Brittany in the direction of the living room. She stopped in the center of the room, in front of the tv, and faced the wall away from Brittany with no indication that she was going to turn. Brittany shut the door and brushed the snow into a corner to melt before straightening up and moving to stand behind the woman. For a long time, there was only silence, as Santana examined the wall, and Brittany watched snowflakes melt in ebony hair.

At last Santana spoke, and even her words couldn't echo in the spacious room.

"I should probably go." Startled, Brittany shifted her weight somewhat, but resisted the urge to move closer.

"What?"

"It's my fault you can't have what you want; you'd probably be better off without me around." Brittany stood aghast, her mouth gaping open and her eyes wide. This was not what she had been expecting at all; rather an apology, or even complete silence. But this . . . she thought they had gotten over this bump in the road years ago.

"Santana, what the hell are you talking about?" she decided to speak bluntly and get it over with; they had already argued, so there was no point in using formalities to avoid the elephant in the room.

"I can't give you what you want, what you _deserve_, Brittany. You deserve someone who can give you that."

"Santana, we've established that you think you can't give me something, now would you mind telling me just what in the hell that is?" Brittany demanded, growing impatient the more bewildered she became.

Santana spun on the spot and looked Brittany in the face for the first time. Her cheeks were streaked with tears and caked with mascara, her eyes drooping and bloodshot, pained with an anguish beyond tears.

"I can't give you children, Britt, and since you want them so much, you should be with somebody who can give them to you," she choked out, a fresh flood of tears cascading down her cheeks.

Brittany gasped, complete and utter shock crashing through her in waves, and without hesitation she reached out and pulled Santana into her chest.

_So _that's_ what this was about. _She thought they had gotten past this _ages_ ago.

"Oh god, Santana, _baby, _don't you _ever_ blame yourself for that," she whispered, cradling Santana as close as was physically possible, gripping the sides of her jacket tightly as the Latina sobbed into her shirt. "My sweet, precious baby girl . . . I'm _so_ sorry love, I didn't mean to make you think that. I will _never_ blame you for that."

"It doesn't matter who you blame; I'm still broken," the Latina sobbed, clutching at her girlfriend with anguished desperation. Brittany was no longer frozen in shock; she couldn't believe that the Latina had thought this was her fault. She had gone from furious to stunned in a matter of seconds at Santana's words, and now the only thing on her mind was how to comfort the crying woman in her arms. She was moving on automatic, her mind still appalled as she took in the situation.

"Santana you are _not_ _broken_," she said firmly, attempting to raise the woman's head. "Look at me, darling. _Look at me_," she demanded, and the brunette finally lifted her head, but left her eyes cast downwards until she felt the fingertips tenderly brushing away her tears. Then she raised her eyes slowly, unwilling to meet Brittany's gaze yet unable to avoid it. The pure love and compassion in her girlfriend's eyes cause new tears to well up, and those, too, were lovingly wiped away.

"Santana Lopez," Brittany whispered, cupping Santana's face in her palms. She had opened her mouth to console, to admonish, even, but at the sight of the woman's face, her words of wisdom stuck somewhere between her brain and her mouth. Instead, she found herself scrutinizing the face and eyes that somehow, even streaked with makeup and reddened with tears, were indescribably beautiful to her. When she had collected her thoughts and readied her words, they were not what she had set out to say, but she found them to be even truer than her intended pep talk.

"You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen," she whispered quietly, and the statement was so unquestionably genuine that Santana's breath caught. She began to protest, but Brittany quickly hushed her. She stroked the cold, wet cheeks gently with the pads of her thumbs.

"Santana, I love you to the end of everything I am," she said simply, and her voice was still a whisper. Santana didn't speak, held captive by the absolute sincerity of her words. Brittany stared deep into her eyes to be sure that she was listening, and when she saw conformation there, she continued. Santana was hanging on to her every word. "You are my person, my _soul mate_. You are the love of my life, and my love for you will continue no matter what gets in our way. You are the most important thing in this world to me, and I will never stop loving you for everything you are and are not."

"Britt," Santana whispered, but Brittany shook her head.

"I'm not done," she said, cutting across Santana's words, and steadied herself, looking directly into those dark eyes. "You are perfect to me in all your imperfections; you are the one thing that matters most to me in this world. You mean everything to me, and I'm yours, body, mind, heart, and soul. It doesn't matter to me that you can't have children, because _any_ child we welcome to our family will be ours, and you're going to be such a wonderful mother, Santana," she added seriously. Santana caught her breath, and her tears began again in earnest. Brittany patiently wiped them away again, and cradled her girl gently in her arms.

"Santana," she whispered. "I love you, so don't you dare say I should be with somebody I deserve. I don't deserve _you_ – loving, sweet, gentle, loud, obnoxious, irritable, stubborn, beautiful you. I love you more than I can say. I choose _you_, Santana." And before Santana could speak, she leaned down and stole her words with a gentle kiss.

Santana let out a tiny murmur at the contact, and allowed Brittany to lead her, content to simply be held. She was surprised when the kiss didn't last long, as slow and loving as it was, but her curiosity was swiftly assuaged when Brittany pressed her lips to her forehead, cheeks, nose, hairline; lips gently brushing her fluttering eyelids . . . butterfly kisses . . . that was so like her . . .

And then, before she could even fully register what was happening, Brittany had bent down and hefted her into her arms. She carried Santana bridal style down the hall and into their room, shutting the door behind them with her foot. Santana only clutched the blonde hair more tightly, noting as she did so how Brittany had made sure to tuck her face into her neck. She nuzzled closer, eyes flickering closed with a sigh as Brittany laid her down gently in the center of the bed.

She knew she didn't have to worry about Brittany taking it too far; this was all about comfort, tonight. She could feel that her girlfriend was concentrating hard on something, but for once, she didn't let it bother her. She was too upset, too cold, and mostly too wrapped up in the blonde to care.

Even still, she couldn't help remembering . . .

_They had decided to go after Rachel's pregnancy scare, just to find out the probability – after all, there had been that guy when Santana was drunk several months before; she hadn't realized what was happening, and he had been charged with assault . . . but that didn't matter anymore. They were just curious; she couldn't remember that night, and she was sure she would have felt something by now . . . some sign . . . _

_And now they were sitting there together, side by side, listening to the doctor as he described to Brittany the likelihood; how long it would take, the time of month, and so on. Santana's hands were clammy in Brittany's as he rattled on and on; he didn't seem to want to look at her, he hadn't the entire time since he had reentered the room, and she wanted to know why. She wasn't far from unleashing Snixx and threatening him with dismemberment as he continued to spew unimportant details at Brittany, details they hadn't even asked for . . ._

_He was leaving, and she found herself clenching Brittany's hand even tighter in her own; both hands now instead of one. She had meant to yell, but when she spoke, her voice came out as a hoarse, grating sound that was almost a cough._

_"__What about me?" she whispered, and it took her a moment of hearing herself to realize that she was pleading. He was keeping something from her; he still hadn't looked her way, and she could tell that he didn't want to answer her question. Usually she didn't mind people keeping bad news to themselves, but now she just wanted to know. She didn't care that they were in a waiting room filled with people she didn't know, people she would ordinarily attempt to intimidate. She was desperate to hear what he had to say, anything he had to say, just as long as he spoke . . ._

_He cleared his throat._

_"__I'm very sorry Ms . . . ah . . ."_

_"__Lopez," Santana supplied quickly, not wanting him to lose his train of thought. She ignored the sinking of her heart and waited frantically, her heart thumping out of rhythm. Beside her, Brittany silently squeezed her hand._

_" __. . . Lopez," the doctor filled in. "I'm not entirely certain what your results were . . . I'll need to check with the RN . . . I'll be back as soon as possible." He hurried out of the room. They waited in silence, neither of them willing to break it with either truthful guesses or false hope._

_Twenty minutes later he was back, and his face was grave._

_"__Ms Lopez, I'm sorry . . . we don't know why this happens . . . sometimes a glitch in hormonal balances or an inactive gene . . . either way . . . I'm very sorry, but the likelihood . . . is slim . . . very slim, in fact we might as well say nonexistent . . . again, we don't know the exact reason for it . . ."_

_"__Just give it to her straight!" Brittany blurted out, interrupting him, seeing how pale and unsteady Santana had gone. In any other situation, the Latina would have made a joke about her choice of words, but right now it was all she could do to remember to breathe. The doctor nodded quickly, suddenly seeming to want to get this over with._

_"__Ms Lopez, I'm very, very sorry," he said gently, his eye contact direct. "But chances are that in all likelihood you will probably never be able to conceive a child . . . and even if you can, it's close to a one-hundred-percent chance that your body would be unable to withstand the pregnancy. So . . . I think it's only reasonable to say that you will probably never be able to bear children."_

_She was falling, knees giving out as she slid to the floor, hands coming up to cover her face as she sank to her knees, letting out a muffled sob. Brittany was beside her in an instant, pulling her backwards into her arms, whispering nonsense words in a voice filled with anguish for the woman in her grasp. She turned, gripping her jacket tighter than she had ever held onto anything before, sobbing uncontrollably into Brittany's chest; body heaving and shuddering, choking on her own breath. The people all around her were murmuring unhappily; a middle-aged man was bending down, placing a hand on her shoulder as he, too, attempted to comfort her, his toddler-aged daughter standing solemnly by, her thumb corked firmly in her mouth, eyes wide . . ._

_She had never felt so helpless before; all of these people who were supposed to be beneath her, and now she was the one being held, whispered to in soothing voices as she cried. Her eyes hurt from clenching so tightly shut. Her entire body seemed to be sticky with tears. Brittany was crying too as she held her, but she wouldn't let go; she was holding onto her like nobody else ever had. She was mumbling incoherent things into the cold down jacket, things like "what did I do wrong," and "just let me fix it," and "please god, why." There was a pain somewhere high up in her chest, and also low in her abdomen, as though feeling the empty place where her child should have been._

_The perfectly impervious Santana Lopez, broken. _

Santana let out a quiet gasp when Brittany carefully raised the bottom of her shirt by several inches and brushed her lips against her lower stomach, directly above her jeans. It jolted her straight out of her painful thoughts, and the memories were gone on the instant. Her eyes remained closed as she allowed Brittany to stay where she was; she felt no inclination to stop her ministrations. But she wasn't expecting the blonde to speak, so the act came as a surprise.

"Baby, look at me . . ." slowly, slightly unwillingly, Santana opened her eyes to see her girlfriend hovering over her, a solemn expression resting on her face. Their eyes locked before Brittany continued.

"Santana, you _will_ have children of your own," she said seriously. Santana stammered, attempting to sit up in vain.

"Britt, the doctors said – "

"I don't care what the doctors said," Brittany cut her off smoothly. Santana quieted immediately, waiting to see what she had to say. "They couldn't give us an explanation, Santana, and they said that your case wasn't like any other they had seen. My mom's a doctor, San, and trust me, 'we don't know why' is code for 'we're giving you a false answer because there isn't another one.' They said 'will_ probably _never,' Tana, not 'will never,' and I'm determined that we can change it to a possibility," she said softly, lightly tracing the brunette's hairline with a fingertip.

"Britt, how the hell do you expect to change that?" Santana whispered. Her insides felt all frozen and tangled, as they did every time this subject was brought up, but she was curious. Brittany had the wildest ideas – and somehow, the wildest always seemed to work. But she couldn't let herself hope; she had spent too many years crying about something she could probably never change.

"With love." And she said it so simply that it brought tears to Santana's eyes. "Santana . . ." Brittany appeared to be struggling for words as she fought with herself, the conflict showing in her eyes. "Santana, you said it's your fault because you can't give me everything I want, but the opposite is actually true. It's _my_ fault, because _I _can't give _you _what _you_ want most . . . probably can't. But Santana I'm going to change that if it takes everything I've got; I _will_ give you children, Santana, _your_ children. I'll figure out a way."

Brittany's sparkling blue eyes were so grave and determined that Santana couldn't find it in her to respond; she could only tilt her head up, and kiss Brittany back as the blonde melted her body with soft caresses, and continued to whisper loving words as she proved her devotion in simple, tender gestures.

She knew they would have to talk, eventually, about what had sparked this entire argument in the first place, but right now she was content to simply lie back and let the other woman take control in the sweetest way that she knew how.

Gently, Brittany's fingers encircled her wrists, guiding them above her head. The blonde pulled away briefly to peel away her girlfriend's jacket, tossing it on the floor, and then returned to ease Santana's shirt gently from her body. The thin fabric clung to tan skin, damp with tears and melted snow. Her jeans followed, leaving the dark haired girl in her bra and panties.

Before Santana could notice her absence, Brittany had fumbled through a drawer beside the bed and returned to help her into a pair of soft pajama pants that she recognized immediately as her girlfriend's – the purple ones with the faded yellow ducks. And then she was untangling her hair from its messy ponytail, allowing it to fan out over the pillows in dark, scattered waves. Brittany touched her face gently, the back of her hand ghosting down her cheek: a silent request for the Latina to open her eyes.

"I love you so much," Brittany whispered. A faint smile quirked at the corners of Santana's lips. The blonde smiled back, causing something warm and fluttery to erupt in Santana's stomach. She pressed one quick, affirming kiss to the girl's lips, and then began to slowly move down.

Unhurriedly, she made her way across the planes of Santana's body, brushing her lips lovingly whenever she felt the urge; behind her ear, along her shoulder; in the hollow at the base of her throat. Hands tracing every curve of the body beneath her, she moved downwards until she reached her tight, toned, flat abdomen that was still somehow incredibly soft. Gentle kisses were sprinkled all across the warm skin; she brought her arms up to rest her palms flat on Santana's stomach.

"Tana," she whispered softly. Santana craned her neck to look down at her girlfriend, seeing her blonde hair spread all across her thighs.

"What is it Britt?" Brittany simply smiled, rubbing soothing circles with her thumbs.

"Nothing," she murmured. "I was just thinking of how lucky I am." Santana blushed, a faint color rising in her cheeks. Inside, Brittany smirked – she was the only one who ever got to see Santana show how affected she was by flattery. "I'm serious," she said softly. "You're so beautiful Santana. Inside and out." Santana shook her head quickly, attempting to sit up only to be gently pushed back into the pillows.

"No I'm not," she contradicted. Brittany was wrong; she wasn't a good person. "I'm a bitch, Brittany. I'm sarcastic and nasty and I belittle everybody. And I'm tiny. I'm not pretty like you." Brittany's fingertips squeezed her hips gently.

"No Santana," the blonde corrected seriously. "You're beautiful. You're the sweetest person I know, you take care of me, and you never call me stupid, even though I am. Your eyes are beautiful, your body is gorgeous, and I love that you're smaller than I am. We fit." The pure sincerity of the dancer's words had Santana smiling, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. They swelled even further at the feeling of warmth when Brittany moved completely on top of her, covering her entire body with her own.

As much as Santana liked to pretend she was the more dominant one in their relationship, she had to admit that she loved this. Being beneath Brittany, feeling her warmth and the light pressure of her weight pressed against every curve of her body, she felt safer than anywhere else in the world. Brittany had a way of making her feel protected; sheltered and cherished and like she was the only other person on the planet. Part of her knew that it was Brittany's intention, and she was all the more grateful for that. No one else had ever tried to take care of her needs first; no one else had ever made her feel special like Brittany did, and Santana was beginning to doubt that anybody else could. She knew that Brittany treasured her; she could feel it in every caring motion.

Brittany swept the dark hair from Santana's forehead and leaned down to tenderly caress the Latina's lips with her own. Santana let out a quiet sigh of contentment at the sensation, and the blonde took the opportunity to nudge her tongue into her girlfriend's mouth. For a long time, they kissed slowly, passionately, listening to the soft sounds of pleasure in the backs of each other's throats, and feeling every each other shiver. Then Brittany pulled away, allowing Santana to catch her breath, and simply held her, gently caressing soft curves.

Starting at the Latina's shoulder, she slowly slid her hand along a tanned arm, allowing her fingers to dance across the smooth expanse of skin, earning a tiny giggle. Smiling at the sound, she paused momentarily when she reached her wrist, brushing the sensitive skin with the pad of her thumb, before finally slipping her hand into the Latina's, threading their fingers together so slowly that both girls could feel every deliberate movement. Slowly, purposefully, she rested her head on Santana's chest, directly above her heart.

Santana said nothing; she only moved her hands to rest lightly on Brittany's head, threading her fingers softly through blonde hair, and listening to Brittany hum quiet lullabies until she finally drifted into sleep.

**So what did you think? I feel like I started this off with too much angst, but maybe you guys saw it differently. I've completed two chapters so far and am mostly done with the third. If you have any suggestions or ideas for new chapters, anything you'd like to see, let me know and I'll do my best to use it. Review and let me know!**


	2. Two

**A/N: Though this story is purely Brittana romance-wise, I have to say that arguments for Quinntana are becoming steadily more convincing. For those of you who have seen "I Do" and still ship Brittana: just a friendly reminder that Quinntana actually happened. **

**Fair warning. You are about to encounter Baby Quinn.**

_"You who suffer because you love, love still more." - Victor Hugo_

"Want Bah."

"Lucy, you need to settle down so that I can finish checking your bandage."

"No. Want _Bah_."

"Lucy, I need you to stop squirming now please."

"But I want Bah!"

"Lucy – "

"Miss Rose, I'll take over from here," Santana cut in smoothly, striding around the corner with a tone of high importance. From her tight black jeans and Michael Kors wedges to her loose curls and billowy button-up blouse, the brunette woman had made certain to appear at the office in flawlessly professional getup. Stemming partly from haughtiness and mostly from her determination to display no signs of the trauma of the previous evening, the superior, unapproachable demeanor of seventeen-year-old Santana Lopez had slid impeccably back into position. Snixx was reigning in full force.

"Ms Lopez, I – I didn't know you were there," the young assistant stuttered. Standing hastily and attempting to brush imaginary lint from her raggedy jeans, she rapidly rearranged her annoyed features into a more submissive expression.

"Clearly," was Santana's sharp retort. "As I sincerely hope that you would have been more meticulous in your treatment of my case with the knowledge that I was standing just around the corner." Perhaps the girl heard the low, dangerous quality to her employer's words, for she quickly mumbled an apology, even going so far as to bow clumsily in her boss's direction before hurriedly attempting an escape.

"Not so fast." Santana was blocking her way, feet planted in a firm stance across the space allotted for the doorframe. "I'm not done with you yet. You will apologize to young Miss Fabray here for your impatience with her before you leave; then you will proceed to my office, where you will gather any messages from the case lawyers and deliver them personally. You will also collect the folder containing the details for Monday's court session on your way, as well as the telephone number Mr. Anderson left on my desk, and heaven help you if you come back here without my coffee. Vanilla latte, double shot. Do I make myself clear?" Santana raised an eyebrow expectantly.

Marley nodded vigorously; her lips were pressed tightly together, and her eyes watered slightly. Santana stepped aside. Muttering a hasty apology, the young girl scurried out the door, only to halt with terrified eyes as Santana called her back once again.

"Miss Rose," she summoned. Obediently, Marley returned to the doorway, eyes cast downward in submission. Santana contemplated, eyes repeatedly raking the nervous girl from head to toe. "Do something about that hideous outfit," she said at last, and spun on her heel with a shove of her hand that slammed the door firmly shut. The last glimpse that Marley caught was of her ass.

The moment the door had closed, Santana dropped her professional demeanor, bending down to crouch at eye level with the small, undernourished blonde who sat giggling to herself on the carpet. That bright, high-pitched laugh made Santana's insides melt like candle wax; the sound spoke of contentment measures beyond what the young woman was capable of verbally expressing. This was the part of her job that Santana loved; the actual care of these broken, struggling young people. Above anything else, she did it to know that she was the one responsible for any fragments of happiness they had, no matter how minute they might be.

"How's little Quinn today?" the Latina cooed, reaching out to playfully tug on a blonde curl. Quinn giggled loudly and ducked her head, the shyness of the gesture shown in the bashful biting of her lip. The girl was cheerful today, Santana could tell, and the thought made her happy to no end.

"Playing," she informed the older woman in a deadly serious tone. "By myself. Like a big girl." Santana smiled brightly at her, folding her short legs beneath her to sit beside the blonde.

"I'm so proud of you, sweetie!" she exclaimed, straightening the collar of the girl's jacket. "But you seemed kind of sad when I came in here. What was going on?" Quinn's face fell, her hazel eyes dropping to the floor.

"She wouldn't let me play," she said softly. "I want Bah." Santana craned her neck to see the various toys and stuffed animals lining the shelves situated high along the walls. When she spotted the stuffed lion sitting on a nearby ledge, she pointed up at it, nudging Quinn's shoulder to get her attention.

"Simba's right up there, sweetie," she soothed. "Do you want me to get him for you?" Her gaze still locked on the carpet, Quinn nodded. "Okay." Santana stood up, stretching slightly from the cramped position. She gauged the height of the shelf with her eyes, reaching her arm upwards experimentally and frowning when she realized that even with her heels, she wasn't quite tall enough to reach the toy animal. Quinn giggled again.

"It's otay, Miss Santana, I can weach it!" the little blonde reassured her energetically. Brushing by the brunette, she crossed the room in several long strides. Santana watched somewhat sadly as the girl stretched her slender legs – Quinn was pretty, extremely pretty, in fact, and it made Santana sad to realize that in another life, she would have had boys chasing after her from every direction. All of her peers would be graduating from high school in a few months' time, and Quinn would still be stuck, never knowing that serene feeling of nostalgia that came with leaving everything behind, starting anew; beginning the construction of her own adult life. In all likelihood, Quinn would be little forever.

But as long as she was here, she might as well enjoy little Quinn.

When Quinn returned in triumph, having snatched her toy lion from the shelf without even having to stand on her tiptoes, Santana immediately began to engage her in an overwhelmingly imaginative game involving housecats and lions and forbidden love stories. She had planned on coloring with her next, but to her great surprise, the girl was so drained by the end of the game that she nodded off right on Santana's shoulder. The Latina watched as she sleepily struggled to get comfortable, finally giving in and lying down on the carpet so that the young blonde could rest her head more comfortably on her chest. In under a minute, Quinn was fast asleep with her thumb stuck in her mouth, a peaceful expression on her face where tiny wisps of blonde hair tickled her skin.

Santana gently brushed them away, careful not to wake the slumbering girl, and found herself smiling indulgently as Quinn cuddled closer in her sleep.

* * *

"Britt, could you please just tell me where we're going in such a hurry?" Santana reached up to tug at the blindfold wrapped securely around her eyes, only for her hands to be batted away by Brittany, who swiftly adjusted the little cloth bandana with several quick pats.

"_No _Santana, and there's really no point in asking me anymore. You'll find out when we get there, and that's the end of it," Brittany said sternly. "And don't touch that blindfold again; I need both my hands to drive." Santana turned in the direction of her girlfriend's voice, unable to see her but sensing her location by the sound of her seatbelt readjusting as she shifted her position.

"But Britt-Britt," she tried again, attempting to wheedle the secret out of her girlfriend with a voice that hinted at puppy-eyes.

"No. You'll ruin the surprise."

"I'm not trying to ruin it."

"Then I guess you'll just have to wait." And Brittany's voice indicated an end to the matter; the conversation was now closed, whether Santana liked it or not. The Latina sulked, angling her body away from Brittany with her arms folded like a small child. The blonde held in her laughter at the sight of the other woman starting to look out the window in an attempt to ignore her, only to be thwarted by the realization that her eyes were covered. She pouted for another minute, sensing the dancer's growing smirk before speaking again, the irritability in her voice masked by a falsely lofty tone.

"I don't suppose you would let me out if I said I had to use the bathroom," she said in a distinctly casual tone that didn't fool Brittany for an instant.

"Nope."

"That could be considered cruelty, you know."

"I don't care."

"But I really have to go!" Santana was whining now – still an illusion, Brittany knew, because she was sitting completely still. Santana always squirmed when she actually had to use the bathroom.

"You brought spare clothes, and my seats are fake leather. Feel free." The Latina was obviously acting – why not play along?

Santana tried again.

"But Britt – "

"Santana, if I let you out of the car to pee, you'll take the blindfold off in the bathroom and use your phone to figure out where we're headed, so I'll say it again, nice try, but _no," _Brittany said firmly, checking in the mirror for large trucks before carefully switching lanes.

Santana huffed impatiently, settling back in her seat with a grumpy expression that was Brittany knew to be false. Santana wasn't really mad at her – she hardly ever was. The Latina had the patience of a three-year-old boy, and would stop at nothing to get what she wanted. Something would have to be done about that, Brittany mused, smirking to herself at the thought. Maybe she could find another way to teach the brunette a little self-control . . .

"Britt – "

"Santana, _no_," Brittany interrupted her girlfriend once more, not even bothering to hear what she had to say. In her periphery, she saw the brunette's eyebrows scrunch up in a real frown, and could hear the obvious hurt in her voice when she spoke next.

"I was only going to ask if you could turn on the radio for me; I can't see the knob," Santana said softly, and in such a small voice that Brittany immediately melted. Chancing a moment when there were no surrounding vehicles, she caught up her left hand in so swift a movement that Santana didn't have time to pull away. She brushed gentle kisses along the woman's knuckles, nuzzling the inside of her wrist before releasing her again.

"I'm sorry babe," she apologized gently. "I was just a little frustrated; I shouldn't have snapped at you like that. Forgive me?" Santana smiled softly at her girlfriend's words before reaching out to squeeze her hand tightly on the center console in reassurance.

"Love you Britt."

"I love you, Santana."

* * *

Half an hour later, and Santana decided that it was time for drastic action. Maybe she'd been kidding around before, but thirty minutes later and a Frappuccino meant that she was clenching her legs every time they hit a bump.

"Britt."

"What babe?"

"I'm serious." Brittany glanced over at her girlfriend, and laughed at the pained expression on the Latina's face; she was sure that if she could see her eyes, Santana would be squinting.

"Okay, okay, babe, I'll find a rest stop," she laughed, putting on her blinker to get in the exit lane.

What with multiple stops for water, coffee, food, bathroom breaks, and stretching their legs, the pair was nearly an hour late by the time they pulled into the parking lot at their destination in lower Connecticut. Brittany climbed out of the car and then made her way to Santana's side to help her out, waiting until she was steady on her feet and fully oriented before guiding her inside, one arm gently wrapped around her waist for balance. Nervously, she considered covering her girlfriend's ears – Santana would be sure to pick up on where they were by the distinctive sounds filling the building – but swiftly decided that it didn't matter. She was about to find out anyways.

Careful not to let her fall, she helped the Latina down to sit cross-legged on the floor, whispering in her ear to not freak out before beckoning over an assistant, who was watching with a barely concealed grin as she struggled to keep ahold of the basket. Santana let out a muffled sound of surprise at the strange sensation of long nails, and at Brittany's word, removed the blindfold to find herself with a lapful of clumsy, squirming kittens.

"_Britt!" _she exclaimed with a squeal, gathering up all nine cats in her arms. Her laugh rang out as one particularly exuberant creature attempted to climb her shirt. "Oh my god, they're so _cute_, listen to them!" Brittany laughed as she held Santana from behind, listening to the kittens' almost inaudible mews. It was almost impossible to believe that this was the sulky, stubborn woman she had known for twenty-three years – the badass Santana Lopez, melted by a pile of kittens.

"Go ahead and pick one," she murmured, carefully removing a strand of dark hair from the range of tiny eager jaws. "Whatever one you want. I'd say two but we wouldn't have room once they got bigger."

"Britt!" Santana gasped. "Are you serious? You – you're really okay with this?" Brittany laughed at her ecstatic expression, happy that she had made the choice she had.

"Don't be ridiculous, San, did you think I just brought you down here to play with them? I know you love cats, and we've been waiting to get one for so long, I figured you finally ought to have one," she said seriously, only to have the soberness wiped from her face when Santana tugged her down for a kiss, sending one of the tiny creatures tumbling to the floor. When she pulled back, she sent the dancer a false glare as she tangled her fingers in long blonde hair.

"If – you – tell – _anyone_ – about this, they'll have to pump the water out of the Pacific Ocean to find your shredded remains," she told her gravely between kisses. Brittany smirked, pulling the Latina back in for another.

"Wouldn't dream of it."

* * *

That night, the two lay cuddled on the couch, the dim light from their forgotten movie barely illuminating the room. In a pile of blankets on the floor, the tiny grey kitten twitched in its sleep. The night was still, somehow quieter than usual; the sounds of the city, usually so loud, had eased to a dull, background hum. The house hadn't been so peaceful in months.

"Brittany, why the cat?" Santana finally spoke, her words filling the room to the brim, the only sound. Asleep on the floor, the kitten moved. Brittany shifted beneath Santana; the brunette automatically adjusted her legs around the taller woman's hips, familiar with the way they needed to move to comfortably fit. She was silent for a minute, contemplating how to respond.

"I knew you wanted one . . . and I thought I'd show you that your fears of fucking up something's life aren't actually realistic," she continued gently, hearing Santana's small doubtful sound in response to her first reason. The woman stayed quiet; if not for the slight pause in the continuous gentle stroke of Santana's fingertips in her hair, Brittany would have thought that she had not heard.

"How did you know?" she finally asked quietly.

"How did I know what?"

"That that's why I said adopting Quinn was too complicated." Brittany hesitated, uncertain. She didn't want to upset the dark-haired woman; she knew that no matter how invisible they might be now, Santana's insecurities were still as large and looming as they had been when she was sixteen. But Santana had come so far.

"Because I know you, Santana," she said at last, her voice filled with caution. "I know that you're worried about screwing things up – with me, with Quinn; even with people like Rachel; that ever since your abuela kicked you out you've felt like you're not worth anyone's love, no matter how much they try to tell you otherwise." It was Santana's turn to shift uncomfortably, making up for her lack of words with movement; with something that she could control.

"That's not entirely true," she contradicted softly as soon as she had found her voice. "I don't feel that way with you. Not anymore." She punctuated her statement with a brief, light kiss to the bridge of Brittany's nose, right between her eyes. Brittany reached up and cupped her cheek in the palm of her hand, feeling Santana lean into her tender touch as she closed her eyes.

"I know that, San," she said softly. "But I also know that try as you might, you still worry that I'm going to leave you. And I get that, it doesn't bother me, but what does bother me is that you think that Quinn deserves someone better when in actuality you are the best person to take care of her, Santana. We both are. And don't try to downplay my understanding or acceptance of her condition, because we both know that that's not an issue with me. It's like Mr. Schue; no matter how broken, lost, untrusting, fragile, stubborn, weird, standoffish, shy, or angry you were, he would love you to the ends of the earth and back." Santana's eyes were closed, her body tight.

"Brittany, it's weird; people would say it's wrong for an eighteen-year-old to act like a baby . . ."

"Babe, they say it's wrong to for us to love a woman; they tell us every day how wrong it is, and look at us. Do we pay any attention?" When Santana made no move to respond, she attempted to lighten the mood by playfully teasing her. "Do I sense the unmovable Santana Lopez giving a shit about what other people say?" When Santana still did not answer, Brittany wriggled out from under her, sitting up on the couch to hold their hands together between their bodies.

"Santana, just because somebody judges it doesn't mean it's wrong. All judgments are just opinions, and opinions belong to people, and people become the most unintelligent when their personal views come into play. People are stupid, Santana, but it doesn't mean that we need to stop loving each other. Since when do you pay any attention to what other people say?"

Santana stared down at their intertwined hands, unwilling to meet Brittany's eyes.

"I don't."

"Exactly, and Santana," Brittany continued firmly. Santana looked up. "I get that you're nervous. Being a mother is the biggest responsibility in the world – especially when it's complicated like Quinn's case. I get that the situation weirds you out to an extent. But you need to figure out what you really want." Santana sighed, leaning back against the sofa cushion to fix her gaze upon the kitten, now curled up and purring peacefully.

"I know, Britt. Just give me some time." Brittany quirked an eyebrow as she stood to start preparing dinner.

"Quinn's final court session is this weekend. I don't want to push you, Santana, but you'd better think fast."

"Or what?" Santana charged, feeling half lazy, half combative with the knowledge that her hair frizzing in all directions. Brittany tossed a brief glance over her shoulder while her hands were occupied with various containers full of ingredients.

"Looks like that's up to you." As she sat up straighter, eying her girlfriend's body while her back was turned, Santana groaned inwardly.

So much for "I'm with stoopid" - Brittany was smarter than Santana at pretty much everything that counted.

**Thoughts? Negative, positive, criticizing; somewhere in between?**


	3. Three

**A/N: I know this update's short darlings. I promise, promise, promise the next one will be much longer. I just felt like I had to get this out there before any of you gave up on this, and to give me motivation to keep going. I'm not giving up on this one! In the next bit we'll have minimal angst, so don't worry; Brittany's too stubborn to let this go. This is Santana - she can't refuse Britt anything. But you'll see some more of the other characters in this one, and also Santana being a bit more . . . Santana.**

**I know there's been a bit of confusion over Quinn's actual age, and I realized I was being vague, so let me clear that up for you: Quinn's actual age is eighteen. She's been abused which has resulted in her using a form of escapism that allows her to revert to acting like a young child. So while she's an adult, I'd place her mental age at around eighteen-months. I know some of you might think she couldn't be talking that well at that age, but trust me, I have met many toddlers who are fully verbal at that stage. Quinn is capable of acting her own age when it's absolutely necessary, but she feels safer as a baby and would much rather be young.**

_"__Life's greatest happiness is to be convinced we are loved." – Victor Hugo, Les Misérables _

Santana took another bite of her breadstick, listening to Rachel laughing at something Tina had said. She would never be able to repay Kurt enough for discovering the only place in the city with decent breadsticks. They weren't up to par with the ones in Lima, but she figured that this was as close as she could hope to get. Leave it up to the gay boy to locate the best food in the state – he'd probably followed the smell of pasta all the way from Bushwick.

She was pulled from her thoughts by a slightly-too-big bite of bread, swiftly followed by the realization that everyone was looking at her. Making a show of gulping down the large mouthful of dough as leisurely as possible, Santana scowled at the table full of ex-glee club members.

"What?" she grumbled irritably, tossing back the remainder of Mercedes's water to keep from coughing. Rachel's thousand mega-watt smile did not dim as she rolled her eyes at the Latina's answer.

"_I said, _how is work going, Santana?" she repeated patiently, pouring more water for an indignant Mercedes. "You're not being castrated; there's no need to get so worked up." Santana shot Mercedes a smirk before answering the group.

"Stressful," she admitted, tilting her chair back to lean against the wall. "We've got a new case that's really keeping us on our toes." She explained Lucy's situation to her six attentive friends, though averting the mention of names this time around.

"Well it sounds like you've got your work cut out for you," Kurt nodded wisely, accepting a bite of pizza from Blaine. "But you'll figure something out – you're the best in the department, and you know it, Santana." Santana tired not to beam at the unexpected praise, but couldn't catch the small smile that escaped her.

"Aw, look; the ice queen takes the compliment," Puck teased, leaning over to ruffle her hair. Santana swatted him away irately.

"_Don't_ touch me Puckerman," she ordered loudly, her expression flickering somewhere between annoyed and faintly flattered. Puck merely laughed and ducked, grinning, as the Latina batted at his head with her paper napkin. "I always take compliments, Noah," she corrected once he had given up trying to yank her chair out from underneath her. "There's no need to deny my awesomeness."

Kurt and Rachel sighed as Puck, Tina, and Blaine laughed, and Santana joined them good-naturedly; it had been more than eight years since they had all finally started getting along, but sometimes it was still so hard to believe. After all, who would ever have believed that things would've changed so much; if someone had told eighteen-year-old Santana Lopez that in nine years she would be sitting trading French fries and career jokes with Man Hands, Wheezy, Pop Princess, Puckzilla, Asian Number One, and Lady Hummel, Santana would've called them crazy and banished them to the streets of Lima Heights.

All the same, twenty-seven-year-old Santana was aware that she wouldn't be willing to trade this; as strange as it was to admit it, the seven of them had become their own kind of family. A screwed up, dysfunctional family, sure – but a family, and her first real family since her abuela had made it clear that she no longer belonged in her own.

"Santana, are you all right?" Kurt's melodious voice broke through her reverie, and she was once more aware that the entire table had fixed their eyes on her. Cursing herself, Santana shook her head to cast away the last strands of thoughts.

"Yeah, I'm fine," she assured them all, consuming a large slice of pepperoni pizza with an attempt at a convincing nod.

"Really? Because you've been spacing out for nearly twenty minutes. I doubt you've been listening to a word we've said." Rachel's voice sounded concerned beneath the flattening effect of her bangs. Santana shot her a look, but quailed at the sight of the stern glare the diva was sending her way.

"Fine," she sighed, pushing her plate away in the direction of Tina, who had been eyeing her uneaten salad. " – Eat away, Mulan. I'm finished," she added, with a vague encouraging gesture. Rachel's expression remained stony.

"Santana, are you going to tell us what's bothering you or not?" she asked sternly, folding her arms in the manner of a matronly mother observing her unruly brood. Santana merely waved her away.

"I'm getting there, Hobbit; let a girl catch her breath," she said passively. The impatient tapping of Blaine's fingernails against the table hurried her on. "I'm just . . . I'm worried."

"About?" Puck sat up in his chair. Santana drew in a breath.

"About Brittany," she confided. "She's been talking non-stop about adoption."

The table exploded, and Santana winced. She knew that they would react exuberantly, considering her audience, but it didn't make her enjoy it any more. The sound of Berry and Hummel going into excited spasms closely resembled two mice strangling each other – only at a much higher volume.

"Guys, _guys!_" Santana broke in, repeatedly smacking her hand on the table to get their attention. "Shut up, okay!" The sight of each mouth snapping shut in turn would have been comical had she not been so annoyed. "Get a grip! It's not a big deal – " Puck scoffed; she shot him a glare. "It's not. Brittany was just considering adopting Quinn because I told her we were having trouble with the case, but I've told her it's too complicated. Now speaking of Quinn, I've got to go – my shift with her starts in forty-five minutes." She stood to go, sliding a twenty-dollar tip beneath her plate and tossing a credit card toward the table at random, where it was received with a squeal by Blaine.

"Don't get excited twinkle-toes; you can't keep it. That's for all of your lunches including takeout for Mike and Kitty, and now I'm going to leave very quickly so that you can't refuse to use it." And with that statement, the Latina dove for the restaurant door, followed by a hail of paper napkins and protests, and shutting the door just in time to narrowly avoid being hit by flying chunks of Rachel's uneaten vegan cottage cheese.

* * *

"Seriously? You couldn't keep her sufficiently occupied for just _five minutes_ so that I could take a bathroom break?" Santana arrived to find Sugar in a state of high distress, scolding a young intern for his negligence as three assistant employees corralled Quinn into a corner to arrest her flight down the hall. The Latina sighed as she swung her bag up onto a nearby shelf, crossing the room to where the pimply teenager cowered, Sugar looming over him in all her five-foot glory.

"Kid, you want to be an intern in this office, you've got a shitload to learn; go take a break and see the director for advising," she ordered, shooing him towards the elevators. "Leave her!" she called over her shoulder, causing the officials to break up their circle around Quinn and disperse. Sugar stalked over, still fuming and looking beyond terrifying despite her height and round, baby-cheeked face.

"Santana, thank god, I've been trying to handle these assholes all morning – "

"Despite the fact that you're about as terrifying as a pissed-off lioness, you've really got to learn to control those bastards; they're only teenagers, for god's sake," was Santana's only retort, flung aside as she crossed the room towards her charge. " – And don't look so injured," she continued, when Sugar looked as if she had been smacked in the face with a basketball. "Go home for lunch and let me deal with this. _Go_," she insisted, chasing her towards the exit. "I can handle her for a couple hours while you're gone."

Once Sugar had departed in high dudgeon, Santana turned to the small, pretty-faced girl cowering in the corner, and moved towards her slowly.

"What's wrong with Quinnie?" she cooed, her entire demeanor transforming in an instant. "Did the big boys chase you down the hall?" Quinn let out a high-pitched giggle, raising her arms to be picked up with a bright grin.

"No, big boys _mean!_" she declared loudly, scrunching her face up so that her nose wrinkled comically in distaste. "They been _bad_ Santana. They twy to bwing me to Mr. Fishy Face." Santana couldn't help laughing at the girl's antics; she had never gotten over the fact that Quinn referred to Sam with almost exactly the same nickname that she herself had for nearly twenty years.

"Why did they bring you to Mr. Sam, sweetie?" Santana asked, lifting Quinn into her arms – an easy feat due to the girl's low weight. She really needed to start feeding her more, but normal food made Quinn sick. It was extremely difficult to get anything nutritious into her.

Quinn frowned thoughtfully, full lips pouting.

"Court," she finally answered with a shrug. Santana exhaled loudly; setting Quinn back on the floor, she placed her hands on her shoulders to steer her clear of any distractions. It was still somewhat odd to her that she had to look _up_ at Quinn. She hated doing this, especially knowing that it made the girl nervous, but she needed to talk to her maturely for a minute.

"Sweetheart, can Big Quinn come out for a sec?" she asked gently. The young girl ducked her head down, eyes closing momentarily as she fought for courage. She didn't like being Big Quinn. It made her emotions more difficult to understand, and big girls had responsibilities. But she knew that it was necessary – for a moment, at least. And maybe Santana would let her have cookies after.

"Okay," she finally spoke softly. She didn't raise her head, but Santana could hear the slight change in her voice that signaled her switch from giggly, bouncing toddler to the tall, quiet young woman with overwhelming fears and grave, tortured eyes. She decided to break it to her in one blow, avoiding beating around the bush.

"Quinn, they're talking about re-granting custody to your parents." Santana really, really hated doing this. She had fought so hard to get this girl away from her tormentors, and it all seemed to be coming back to bite her in the ass. The situation had altered so swiftly that she had barely been given time to appeal the decision. If she were to truly free Quinn, she needed a solid case, and fast.

"No," Quinn shot back, her voice surprisingly fierce. "I can't. You know I can't." Her tone was biting, sharp, but a hint of unshed tears lingered there. Santana wasn't sure how to respond; she didn't want to be blunt with the girl, but she needed to get her point across. Maybe she could just try to get this over with – if she could do it quickly, and without making Quinn cry, then she could consider the endeavor a success.

"Quinn, I know that, but they can't figure out what to do with you," she spoke firmly. "We've made a case against confinement and the judge ruled in our favor, but you can't be emancipated because of your tendency to act the way you do; you wouldn't be able to support yourself. The only route left is adoption or foster care, and that would be difficult enough since you're over eighteen, but your psychological state makes it nearly impossible." She was trying to break it gently; she really, _really_ didn't want Quinn to start crying.

Too late. She had opened up the floodgates.

"Why can't anybody love me?" Quinn pleaded quietly, raising her head so that Santana could see the thickly falling tears. Her voice sounded resigned, breaking at the end of every word as if each was a blow to her chest. "I just want somebody to take care of me. Why can't they see that? I know I'm difficult, and I try to be mature, but it _hurts_, Santana; it's exhausting. I don't know if I can do it." The Latina was feeling slightly frantic, the broken quality to Quinn's words chasing her maliciously like a missile intent on embedding itself in the back of her skull. She couldn't watch this anymore. She just wanted to find Quinn a place with someone who cared about her, someone who knew she was special; someone who . . .

That was it. It was going to take a hell of a lot of acceptance on her part, but she had it. Quinn was too important not to do it. She had only spent several weeks with her, but every second she had been around her made Santana realize just how much she wanted to protect the girl. She had spent every second of the past few days wishing that she could wrap Quinn up and shelter her from the world, and let her know that it didn't matter what anybody else said; that it was perfectly okay to be exactly who she needed to be.

"Quinn, please stop crying." Santana didn't know where the excited tone had come from; she only knew that she needed the girl to focus. "I'm going to fix this, okay? Let's make a deal." At that, Quinn quieted. Little Quinn couldn't care less, but Big Quinn knew that deals usually involved benefits, and she was tired of feeling like shit. She met Santana's eyes briefly, and nodded for her to continue. Santana spoke now in earnest.

"I just need you to keep being big for a couple more hours while I go and talk to somebody. Then I'll come back and we'll go to court and have this figured out by the end of the day, okay?" Quinn shook her head.

"What's the deal part of it?" Santana smiled, releasing her grip on Quinn's shoulders and moving to take her hand as they began to walk toward the elevators.

"The deal part of it is that if you can handle being big for just a few more hours, I think I can sort things out so that if you don't want to, you'll never have to be Big Quinn again."

"You mean I could be little as long as I wanted?"

"Yes, Quinn, as long as you want," Santana agreed with a nod. Quinn frowned questioningly.

"But how?" she wanted to know. Santana smiled vaguely, releasing Quinn's hand as she turned to pull out her cell phone.

"Someone I know had a crazy idea about this, and I think that it just might work," was all she offered as she quickly dialed a cab service, giving instructions for the driver to be there by the time she reached the ground floor.

She needed to get home and talk to Brittany.

**A/N: So there's that! Again, let me know your thoughts. You'll see much more interaction with Quinn in the next chapter, as well as Quinn and Brittany together. Bring it on, and don't forget to hit that little review button my darlings. ;)**


	4. Four

**A/N: So there was zero internet at my house today, which "forced" me into writing all day, so I actually got something accomplished. I hope you like this chapter. I recognize that Santana's character seems to be all over the place - please let me know if she's too confusing to follow and I'll try to steady it out. I'm not sticking with one particular point of view in this story, but rather switching around as the moment suits. I hope I did this justice; I tried to infuse it with the right combination of intensity and lighter plot fluff. Let me know what you think.**

_"To die for lack of love is horrible. The asphyxia of the soul." - Victor Hugo_

"Britt, I'm giving you my Platinum card and you need to go shopping. I don't care how much you spend; just buy anything you think we'll need. Get it all, if you can't make up your mind; don't worry about the money." From the moment she opened the door, Santana was talking a mile a minute, barely pausing to kiss Brittany on the cheek as she always did upon her arrival back at the apartment. Brittany stood from where she had been reading at the table, laying her book down with the spine bent the way that Rachel was always scolding her for doing.

"Whoa, whoa, calm down, San. What's going on?" she asked worriedly, hands fluttering over her girlfriend to make sure that she wasn't injured before running through her head to figure out what catastrophe could possibly have caused Santana to speak so fast in English. Santana brought her hands up to cup Brittany's cheeks, looking at her intently with an expression that showed exactly how serious she was.

"We're adopting Quinn."

"_What?_ Santana, slow down; I thought you were against this?" Brittany exclaimed. She watched as Santana rummaged noisily through her purse before digging up the credit card and handing it over.

"I need to, Britt. They're going to re-grant her parents custody." Brittany reached out, grasping a bicep firmly in her slender fingers, spinning her girlfriend around to face her.

"Santana. Stop. I won't say I'm not thrilled, but have you honestly thought about this?" she probed seriously. She watched as Santana bit her lip, thinking, and stopped her before she could speak. "Have you thought about the fact that you're about to become a _parent? _ That from the moment you adopt Quinn, you will be responsible for the health and happiness of a living, breathing human being until the day you die? Santana you can't take this lightly," she said sternly. Santana's eyes were determined.

"Britt, I know."

"Do you?" Brittany questioned, staring even more intently. It wasn't that she was angry; she wanted to see if Santana was serious by seeing if she could trip her into confessing uncertainty. If they were going to do this, Santana needed to be fully aware of what she was getting herself into.

"I do."

"Santana, it's one thing to let someone stay over at our apartment for a month. It's another to adopt a child," she pushed her. "If we adopt Quinn, you will always be a parent. _I_ will always be a parent. You will become a mother – the mother of someone who will probably always have special needs. Unless something shifts with Quinn, you'll be changing diapers when you're eighty. It's not something you could ever back out of; it's like giving Lord Tubbington cocaine – the minute you let him at it, there's no turning back."

Santana would have laughed at the high school Brittany-esque comparison had the situation not been so heavily weighted. She knew that Brittany was only making absolute certain that she was aware of what she was doing. It wasn't like her – the old Santana Lopez would have never once even considered adopting a child. Then again, the old Santana wore cheerleading skirts and ordered slushies to be thrown at Rachel Berry. Now here she was, attempting to convince her girlfriend of nearly fourteen years that she was sincere about adopting an eighteen-year-old abuse victim.

Since when did she want to be a mother?

Oh, right. Since she met Quinn. Damn.

"Brittany, I am absolutely one hundred percent serious about this," Santana said firmly. She placed her hands on Brittany's shoulders and gave her the stare down look that never failed to convince the blonde of her true intentions. "I know that this is so far beyond insane, and that we're crazy to be jumping into this so fast, but I want to do this. I want to protect Quinn. I want to be a – a mother," she exhaled, dropping her gaze to her shoes at the thought of it. She felt Brittany gently squeeze her waist reassuringly in reply. Slowly, she raised her head back up. She had to get all this out now. She needed Brittany to hear that she wasn't underestimating the situation. Though it was not the first time she had tried so hard to convince her girlfriend of something, the occasion was rare, and she wanted the blonde to see how important this was.

"I want to do this," she continued softly. "And I know this is probably the stupidest thing I've ever done, but we can figure out everything as we go. We need to save Quinn, and while I know I'll probably have little moments when I regret this, I'd rather have that, because I know that if we _didn't_ take her, I'd regret it every moment for the rest of my life." At her words, Brittany's face broke out into a wide grin.

"Okay," she whispered, and leaned forward to peck Santana on the nose. Santana jolted, startled by the sudden change in attitude, and stepped back a foot.

"Okay?" she asked incredulously.

"Okay," Brittany laughed in conformation. Slowly, Santana's lips spread in a smile; a tight squeal escaped her, and she lunged forward, nearly sending Brittany sprawling to the floor with the force of her hug.

"I've got to get back to court," she continued hastily, brushing her jeans once she had recovered from the immediate excitement of it. "You'll go shopping? I'd help, but I need to go explain to the judge." Brittany waved her off, already heading towards the door to pull on her fluffy winter boots.

"It's fine, San; I can handle it. But don't you need me there to sign things?" she queried as an afterthought. Her blonde hair was mussed from the exuberant embrace, and a tiny smudge of lipstick decorated a corner of her upper lip. Santana shook her head, amused.

"Not yet. I need to get it approved first, and then they have to draw up the documents. If it all goes through, I'll probably call you at around five or so and have someone bring you down there. Except you might want to fix your lipstick," she added impishly, nudging the blonde with her hips as she scooted past. Brittany's confused frown, followed by wide-eyed recognition after a glance in the mirror, was enough to keep her laughing all the way into the cab.

Once Santana had given the driver directions and settled in her seat, she allowed her mind to wander as it pleased. She was still somewhat shocked with her own decision, but held absolutely no doubt that it was the right choice to make. In the past few weeks, she had spent more time with Quinn than she ever had on any other case. Yes, there had been moments when her doubtful, less accepting high-school self had crept through somewhat in the beginning, but she hadn't really known Quinn yet. Granted, she still couldn't honestly say she _knew_ the younger blonde, but she knew that would all come in good time.

Quinn was so helpless, so sweet, that she had slowly melted Santana's heart before she had even had a chance to protest. And once it had happened, she felt no inclination to reverse the effect the young girl had on her. It was an issue she often encountered in her career – the horror at the realization of how hideous people could be to one another. In all truth, the moment after she first witnessed a man beating his young son, she had called Rachel, Kurt, Blaine, Tina, and the rest in succession, and apologized. She hadn't even been sure of what she was apologizing for; not a specific event, but rather her entire treatment of them through high school. What had given her heart the most painful twinge was how quickly they had all forgiven her.

Santana didn't think she would ever understand people. They were so volatile, so distinct in their personalities. Whenever she attempted to unravel a reaction, it only led to frustration with her inability to comprehend. Sometimes she wondered whether she was socially damaged – Brittany confused her the most, in her complete ease in treating people with kindness. It seemed so effortless that Santana had resented her at first. Now, she couldn't think of anyone she would rather know in the way that she knew Brittany.

Brittany. She would be so wonderful with Quinn, Santana realized. The blonde was so caring; she would be sure to be just as affected by the girl as Santana was, albeit in a different way. She would accept Quinn's situation as if it were completely natural; she wouldn't question Quinn's difficulties once. Santana envied that ability in her girlfriend, but the thought only served to help her realize exactly how right she had been to make the decision that she had. Quinn needed people who would love her and care for her without calling her out on the peculiarity of her condition. She would find that with Brittany.

Santana's thoughts were interrupted by the driver rapping on the glass partition, gesturing to her that they had arrived. Sliding out of the cab, she quickly paid him before hurrying through the revolving glass doors at the entrance. Flashing her ID card to the receptionist, she hastened into an elevator, prodding the button to the fifth floor impatiently. She scowled slightly at the obnoxious classical music blasting through low-quality speakers, irritably jabbing the button at every stop. When she finally reached the desired level, she made her way swiftly down the narrow corridor, gagging slightly on the pungent odor of carpet shampoo.

The door to the courtroom was open, which suited her, as she had no desire to knock and stand waiting while some overweight jury member hefted himself out of a chair and waddled to the door to let her in. She sat down immediately at the only available space at the long table, setting her purse on the floor and nudging it between her feet. Elbows resting on the edge of the mahogany, she raised an eyebrow at the roomful of lawyers and jurors; she wanted to get this over with.

"Ms Lopez, thank you for joining us," boomed a heavy voice at the head of the table. The judge squinted down at Santana with bleary eyes, appraising. "I understand you are the one responsible for the case of Miss Fabray?" He gestured towards the end of the table; Santana blinked in surprise. Quinn was already there, seated uncomfortably between two stern looking mid-fifties women. Poor Quinn looked so nervous; as Santana watched, she fidgeted uneasily in her chair.

Recovering, Santana nodded and directed her gaze back to the aging judge.

"Yes sir," she confirmed, almost needing to physically restrain herself from rolling her eyes at the forced professionalism of her own tone. "And before we get into details, I'd like to propose a solution that will render spending several hours discussing our options completely unnecessary." The entire room sat up straighter at the Latina's words, and she chuckled inwardly at their anxiousness to get the session over and done with. She couldn't agree more.

The judge eyed her somewhat disbelievingly, though when he spoke, his voice, too, was hopeful.

"In that case, please share this solution with the court," he invited, gesturing for her to continue. Santana allowed herself a slight smile before pulling a sheaf of paperwork from her briefcase and spreading it across the tabletop in presentation. Those nearest to her leaned forward slightly in their seats to catch a glimpse of the various forms.

"I wish to sign for the legal adoption of Miss Fabray," she stated simply. Silence filled the room. Curious glances were seen being traded back and forth all along the table. The judge cleared his throat uneasily.

"Excuse me, Ms Lopez?" His voice was slightly strained. Santana raised an eyebrow, but otherwise remained entirely immobile.

"I'm sure I made myself perfectly clear," she responded smoothly. Somewhat shocked in expression, the man shifted in his chair.

"Ah, Ms Lopez," he began uncomfortably. "That's not exactly conventional . . ."

"Why not?" Santana directed her gaze steadily upon him and him alone, cutting him off. "My girlfriend and I make good money," she stated resolutely. "We would be more than capable of providing for her. You can check our financial records," she added, handing a document to the man next to her without glancing at him. "We have a spare bedroom; our apartment is large enough to comfortably accommodate at least five people other than ourselves. I am trained in the care of people like Miss Fabray. My girlfriend is not professionally trained, but she worked in a daycare for three years. I can give you recommendations from every employer she's ever had. We have been in a stable relationship for nearly nine years. I assure you that we are completely competent." Directing her state to each person at the table in turn, she challenged them with her eyes. She knew she was convincing; there was a reason she was good at this job.

"Ms Lopez, there are plenty of other people in this city who can say exactly the same things. You are very young. What makes you think you and Miss Pierce are right for Miss Fabray?" the judge questioned. Santana fixed his face in a deadly state. His bushy eyebrows were really staring to annoy her.

"Sir, I care about Miss Fabray. I understand her situation. My girlfriend is the most open-minded and accepting person I've ever encountered, and I will explain to her fully the circumstances here. We are twenty-seven years old, have stable jobs, and are caring people. I am absolutely positive that we are the best option for her," she stated. Her glare had already narrowed to a finer focus. God, she wanted to refer him to her eyebrow artist.

"Sir, if I may be given voice?" cut in an older man midway down the table. The judge raised his eyebrows.

"Certainly, Mr. Clavil." The man looked up, his face matter-of-fact.

"Sir, I firmly believe that Ms Lopez and Miss Pierce will be adequate. I would also like to add, sir, with all due respect – you don't have a choice. Nobody else is going to adopt Lucy Fabray. There is no other option." A smug smile took over Santana's firmly set mouth.

"Wonderful."

"Just a moment," a middle-aged woman called from further down the room. The judge pointed to her with his gavel.

"Yes, Mrs. Jian?" The woman turned to Quinn, peering at her from over the tops of her horn-rimmed glasses.

"We need to hear the opinion of the client."

"Point valid," the judge concurred, leaning forward with his hands clasped firmly. "Miss Fabray, what is your input?" Quinn tensed in her chair, thighs jumping beneath the table. She swallowed loudly, unsure of her own voice. She didn't like being Big Quinn. But she also knew that she wanted to go with Santana. Santana was the first person who had been nice to her in many years. She felt comfortable around her. Besides, Santana had said that if things worked out, she would never have to be Big Quinn again.

She made her decision.

"I – I want to go with Ms Santana," she spoke up tentatively, nervous, uncertain. "Is – is that okay?" The last thing she wanted was for Santana to get in trouble. Getting in trouble usually meant that people got hit, and she didn't want that to happen. Plus, if Santana got in trouble, she would probably get yelled at, too.

The entirety of the room smiled indulgently, unable to help themselves.

"Yes, that's okay," the judge confirmed, sliding his spectacles up his perspiring nose. "However, I must ask you – do you feel safe around Ms Lopez?" he asked sternly, his words suddenly turning serious. Quinn nodded despite the lump in her throat. She did.

"Yes."

"And are you comfortable with her knowing of your condition?"

"Y – Yes."

"You feel confident that she and Miss Pierce will provide for you adequately?"

"Y – Y – Yes."

"And you feel that they will attend to the various needs relating to your condition?"

"Yes sir." She was starting to become agitated. She didn't like that he was asking her so many questions, and it was taking every ounce of concentration she possessed to keep her voice from turning toddlerish. Looking up worriedly, she caught Santana's eye across the table. The Latina smiled, and suddenly she felt more confident.

"You trust that Ms Lopez will not take advantage of you or your condition in any way?"

"Yes. I feel safe with her," Quinn responded firmly, even going so far as to nod as she confidently met the man's gaze. "I know she will take care of me. I think – I think I can maybe be happy with her." The judge nodded curtly, standing up.

"Then this case is closed. Ms Lopez, you and Miss Pierce will meet with Mrs. Goldstein at the reception desk to sign the necessary documents for adoption, medical care, and health insurance. You may bring Miss Fabray home tonight." Santana could hardly believe her ears. Standing, she shook his hand, thanking him enthusiastically, before maneuvering her way through the mass of now chattering lawyers to get to Quinn. When she reached her, she outstretched a hand, smiling encouragingly as Quinn caught it with the tiniest hint of hesitation.

"You ready to come home, Quinnie?" Quinn beamed and allowed a tiny giggle to escape her as she followed the Latina woman from the room. Her heart soared at the words.

_Home_.

* * *

Brittany stood in the exact center of the aisle in the middle of the crowded department store. She had no idea where to go, what to buy – Santana had said to buy anything she thought they would need, but what _did_ they need? According to what Santana had told her earlier, Quinn's mental age was around sixteen months. What did a sixteen-month-old need? And wasn't Quinn eighteen? How could she combine the two ages and buy something that actually made sense.

She decided to start with clothing. She knew from experience that the "young adult" section of the store carried clothes that fit people Quinn's age, but that some styles were aimed towards younger adolescents. Maybe there would be something there for Quinn.

Searching the clearance racks for anything she thought the girl might like, she hit another roadblock. What size was Quinn? Santana had said that she was between them in height, but also that she was underfed. That probably meant that she was a bit smaller than someone of their height would normally be. But were her legs long or short? Would regular tee shirts fit her too tightly, or would they be too baggy?

"Excuse me," Brittany flagged down a passing saleswoman. "Could you help me?"

"That's what I'm here for. How can I help you?" The college student folded her arms, evaluating the dancer's body with an appreciative eyebrow raise. The blonde chose to ignore her rather than comment as Santana would have done, and decided to get straight to business.

"I'm looking for clothes for someone, but I don't know their size," she explained. The eyebrow floated higher on the girl's rather broad forehead.

"Are you now? And just how do you expect me to help you with that?" she asked rather rudely. Brittany backtracked, fumbling with her words. There was a reason she didn't like going places like this without Santana. Everybody was so unhelpful.

"I – I just – I haven't met her yet, but my girlfriend asked me to go buy clothes for her, and I don't know her size," she let out in a rush, feeling somewhat flustered. The college girl scowled vaguely at the mention of Santana, but sighed, resigned to helping this somewhat difficult customer. Hopefully she'd get a raise by the end of the week if she did her job right.

"Miss, can you at least tell me how old she is?" she asked impatiently. Brittany frowned for a moment, but then immediately brightened up. She _did_ remember that.

"Eighteen," she said confidently, pleased to have remembered such an important detail. But then she frowned again, recalling her own thoughts from only a minute ago. "But she's a little underweight. She's a little shorter than I am . . . probably like an inch and a half . . ." she clarified. She realized she was gesturing wildly with her hands as she spoke, but decided that this was no time to care. Santana would be calling her in about an hour, and she had a great deal more to accomplish.

"Okay . . . she's probably about a four or five in jeans, and extra small for shirts," the girl estimated, making use of the extra reason to give Brittany the once-over. She smirked as her eyes landed on the tight, flat stomach. Brittany felt her scowl growing, irritated with this girl for staring. She really wished Santana were there.

"Thank you," she said abruptly, spinning on her heel and stomping off to look in the juniors' section. Anything to get away from that judgmental stare.

Scanning the racks for anything interesting, she decided to just grab whatever caught her eye first. If this worked out, they would have a long time to buy Quinn new clothes.

She hoped this worked out. She wanted to be a parent, _Quinn's_ parent. Maybe she wasn't the brightest when it came to intellectual things, but Brittany knew that she was good with kids. Partly because she understood their mindsets, and partly because she had always wanted to be a mother; either way, she was sure she would do well with Quinn. Sure, Quinn was different, but it would just be like a kid in a different body. Of course it was going to be hard – she couldn't possibly delude herself into thinking that it wouldn't be – but that didn't mean she couldn't be excited about being a mother.

After buying nearly everything her gaze had landed on, Brittany made her way to the infant section of the store, and stopped dead in dismay. There was so much! What was she supposed to get? What would Quinn need? It looked like she was going to need help again.

"E – excuse me," she blurted, startling an older woman who was browsing in the stuffed animal area. "Can you help me find some things?" The elderly lady smiled kindly, coming over with a knowing look.

"Let me guess – a friend's baby? Not sure what to get?" she asked pleasantly. Brittany smiled back. This was a definite improvement over sulky college students.

"Not quite," she admitted. "It's a girl I'm adopting. She's about sixteen months." She decided to skip the details of Quinn's condition. There was no telling what the woman's reaction would be, and it would only complicate things. It wasn't as if she needed to buy a crib; she just didn't know the littler things. Would Quinn need a bottle? Diapers? Baby blankets?

"That's a right wonderful thing you're doing," the woman praised her, stepping around Brittany to reach up for something on a higher shelf. "Now, let's see . . . you'll want pacifiers. Even if she's talking, she'll probably still want to suck on something, and you're not breastfeeding. Bottles too, and a sippy cup; diapers, not pull-ups; she's not quite old enough for those yet." She was handing Brittany items as she pulled them off the shelves, barely allowing the girl enough time to dump them into the cart before handing her more.

"What about toys?" Brittany asked, staggering slightly under the weight of all the assorted merchandise. The woman didn't even pause, allowing the girl a brief reprieve by piling still more supplies onto the heap in the cart.

"Lots. Stuffed animals, baby blankets, beanie babies; whatever she can cuddle with that won't cut her skin or make her choke," she said decidedly, adding a plush yellow cat to the growing pile. "Anything soft will do, and nothing modeled after a cartoon, for the love of heaven." She chose that moment to go off on a long-winded rant about Disney's line of stuffed animals and Barbie dolls, and how degrading they were for people who had grown up making toys out of wooden blocks. By the time Brittany got away, she had heard more about the depression era than she had ever been taught in history class.

After thanking the elderly woman and paying for all the merchandise, Brittany checked her phone to see that Santana had called her with instructions to meet her on the ground floor of the social services center in twenty minutes to sign the necessary documents, and that she would be meeting Quinn later tonight.

Brittany let out an elated squeal, paying absolutely no attention to the odd look the burly security man at the exit gave her.

* * *

"Quinnie-bear, you okay?" Quinn stared up at the door of the apartment, pausing on the top step of the outdoor stairs. Suddenly, she was nervous. What if Brittany didn't like her? What if she made her go away? She knew Santana wouldn't make her leave on her own, but she and Brittany had been together for _fourteen_ years. What if Santana took her girlfriend's side? Why wouldn't she? It was perfectly logical to assume that Santana would go along with the decision of someone she knew so well. She barely knew Quinn. Why should she care what happened to her if her girlfriend didn't like Quinn?

Eyebrows pinched in worry, Quinn jammed her thumb in her mouth and nervously began to suck – a habit that she barely even realized she had picked up. She had been doing it for years; in fact, she hadn't ever really stopped. What if Santana changed her mind? What if she thought that Quinn's condition was too strange, too complicated for her? What if Brittany didn't want someone weird like her around?

"Hey, Quinn," Santana broke into her worried thoughts by dropping her bags and soothingly stroking a stray piece of blonde bangs that had escaped from Quinn's pigtails. "Don't worry so much. Brittany's amazing. She's super excited about meeting someone as special as you," she soothed, calmingly tucking the wayward hair behind the girl's ear. Quinn stared at the ground. She wasn't sure. What if Brittany hated her? Would they send her back to her parents? She didn't ever want to go back to them again.

Santana smiled reassuringly at her, tilting her chin up to look at her.

"Quinnie, I promise, you're going to love Brittany. She made cookies for you, you know," she said, her voice dropping into tempting whisper, as if telling a secret. Quinn allowed herself one quick glance up.

"Chocolate chip?" she asked hopefully. Santana laughed at her enthusiasm, and bent to pick up her bags again, taking Quinn's hand.

"Of course," she confirmed. "Now, are you ready? Let's go meet Brittany, and then you can have some." Quinn nodded eagerly, bouncing on the balls of her feet as Santana fumbled with the lock. The moment she had the door open, Quinn heard a soft voice exclaim, _"oh my god," _before she was looking up into the bluest eyes she had ever seen.

"San, she's _adorable_," Brittany gushed, bringing one hand to cover her huge smile. Quinn ducked her head bashfully, causing Santana to chuckle.

"She's a bit shy," she laughed, hanging her coat before moving to stand at the younger blonde's side. "Quinnie, can you look up at Brittany? She wants to say hi." Santana's voice was coaxing enough that Quinn was persuaded to lift her head and look shyly into the blue eyes.

"Hey there sweetie," Brittany whispered, extending a hand for the younger girl to take. Quinn hesitantly placed her hand in Brittany's, feeling how warm and smooth it was. She barely had a chance to register the feeling before Brittany was pulling her softly into a hug. Her body stiffened for the briefest of moments before she relaxed into the embrace. Brittany was warm and soft; her arms were strong yet gentle, and she smelled like a combination of pineapple and baking. She felt safe.

Without realizing it, Quinn sniffled slightly, burrowing in closer to the warm body. While Brittany was only an inch or so taller than she was, she still felt small in her arms. She wasn't sure why she was suddenly so sad, or where the hot tears now sliding down her cheeks had come from, but she knew that being held by Brittany felt like home. Vaguely, as she nestled closer, shutting her eyes, Quinn wondered if this was what mothers were supposed to do.

"San, look at her."

"I know. This is the first time she's let anyone do much more than hold her hand."

"She's crying. Did I do something wrong?"

"She is? No, I don't think so. She's never cried once through all the stuff she went through. I think she's just feeling a bit overwhelmed." Hearing them, Quinn nodded, eyes still tightly closed against tears. "Yeah? You a little overwhelmed Quinnie?" Sniffling quietly, Quinn opened her eyes and nodded once more. She wasn't sure what to do. This was all so new. And then she remembered.

"Cookies?" she asked uncertainly. Both women chuckled; she could feel Brittany shake as she laughed.

"Yes, of course, sweetie, you can have cookies," Brittany assured her, pulling back to tenderly wipe the tears from Quinn's cheeks with the pads of her thumbs. "Let's get you into the kitchen, huh?" At the girl's small nod, Santana took her other hand, the two of them leading her into the kitchen, each guiding a small hand. They smiled at each other over Quinn's head, both of them slightly teary with a deluge of emotions.

Presented with the sheet of still-warm chocolate-chip cookies, Quinn's level of comfort rose. She smiled timidly at the two women as she ate, gazing up from beneath her long eyelashes. She was completely unaware of the effect she was having; if Brittany's heart hadn't already been captured by the sweet little blonde, the wide, innocent hazel eyes would have been enough. Those same eyes from the photograph that had haunted Brittany as she tried to sleep were ten times more striking in real life. Not only that, but the sight of her stubborn, unmovable girlfriend cooing over the girl was enough to melt her from the inside out.

Having finished her cookie, Quinn whispered an almost inaudible thank you, prompting Brittany to sweep her into another hug, wiping the melted chocolate from the corners of the smaller girl's mouth.

"Oh, sweetie, you don't have to thank me. That's what mommies do, right?" Brittany murmured, pulling her close. Her use of the word was effortless, prompting Quinn to scrunch her face in contemplation. Was it?

"I don't know what mommies do," she said with a shrug. Brittany's response was only to stroke the bright hair softly, glancing up at Santana with helpless eyes. The Latina bit her lip, closing her eyes momentarily; this was why she had done this. Quinn needed parents – loving parents. She needed someone who would protect her, baby her, and treat her the way she needed to be treated.

This had to work.

Quinn nervously began to suck her thumb again at the thought of her "mother" – Judy yelling at her for needing help being tucked in; calling her a brat for speaking like a baby; punishing her for still sleeping with a teddy bear at seventeen. Why hadn't Judy loved her? She had known Quinn since she was _born_, and she had never given her a sign that she was anything besides a burden. Now here were Brittany and Santana, who had known her for such a short time, hugging her, speaking to her softly, and giving her cookies. Santana seemed to understand when she was scared; Brittany didn't mind that she acted young. What made them so different?

Even so soon, snuggled into the material of Brittany's blouse, Quinn felt safe. She found her eyelids sinking closed, heavy with a tired weight. Today had been exhausting; she had been Big Quinn for _so long_. The attempt to hold herself earlier had drained her of all energy, and it was only seven o'clock.

"She looks sleepy."

"You think so? Hey Quinnie-bear," Santana cooed softly, brushing hair out of closed eyes. "Are you all worn out?" Quinn opened one eye and nodded against Brittany's chest. Santana's hand lingered against the smooth cheek. "Yeah? Does little Quinnie want to sleep?" Quinn nodded again; she buried her face in Brittany's shirt. As exciting as it was to meet Brittany, and to finally be home with Santana, she was tired. Santana and Brittany wouldn't tuck her in, but maybe she would get to sleep in a bed.

"I think little Quinnie needs a bath first," Brittany suggested. Quinn grumbled in response; the women grinned at each other. Brittany released her hold on the girl, allowing Santana to move in with coaxing words.

* * *

Quinn stood at the edge of the tub, thumb in her mouth, turning her attention apprehensively back and forth between Brittany and Santana. She knew that she needed to take a bath, but she wasn't sure what to do. She had learned how to bathe herself after Russell had scolded her for being incapable and given her an ultimatum: either go without bathing, or do it herself. She had gone with the latter choice, but still wasn't very good at it. She always seemed to lose track of what she was doing or forget how much shampoo to use.

"Quinnie? Sweetheart? Do you need help?" Santana asked. Quinn hesitated. Was it a trick question? Were they trying to trip her into answering? But Santana seemed so genuine; her voice wasn't threatening, unlike Russell's. Maybe they weren't going to yell at her.

"Yes pwease," she decided finally. The sweet baby voice made both girls melt. Brittany let out a quiet giggle.

"All righty. Let's get you in the tub." Santana knelt down and began to help her with her jeans. Quinn permitted Brittany to steady her as the Latina helped her out of her clothes, waiting patiently as she turned the water on and began to fill the tub. The dancer made sure to add extra bubbles – she wanted Quinn to be able to play if she wanted to.

For a moment, standing outside the tub, Quinn felt a twinge of self-consciousness sting her. She hated people seeing her body. But this was okay, right? Santana and Brittany weren't going to hurt her, and she didn't want to take a bath all by herself. Being alone scared her, especially in strange places. She hoped they wouldn't leave her by herself in the bathroom.

Helping Quinn into the tub, Santana reached for the bottle of shampoo, but stopped suddenly before getting it all over her hands. She needed to wash Quinn's hair, but if she got shampoo into the girl's eyes, there were sure to be tears, and that was the last thing she wanted today. Brittany, seeing her hesitation, crouched beside the bathtub and began creating buildings out of the bubbles. Quinn's eyes went wide, her jaw dropping comically open.

"How you do dat?" she asked breathlessly. She watched as Brittany fashioned a tower, sending her a playful wink.

"Magic," she whispered seriously.

"Can I twy?" Both girls smiled at the girl's enthusiasm – she hadn't even noticed Santana beginning to rinse her hair.

"Sure. See, just do this . . ." Quinn attempted to copy the dancer, pouting when the top of her tower tipped and fell with a plop back into the foam.

"It fall Britty."

Brittany only smiled, continuing to distract the girl until Santana had finished. While the Latina drained the tub and dried Quinn's hair, the taller blonde departed for the bedroom in search of the light yellow footie pajamas she had bought, as well as a small stuffed lamb. Quinn's eyes widened as Brittany returned, looking from the stuffed toy to the dancer and back again while Santana zipped up the soft onesie.

"Mine?" she breathed. Brittany nodded, placing the animal into outstretched arms. Quinn's eyes were filled with wonderment; she clutched the lamb close to her chest, rocking her arms slightly. She hadn't had a stuffed animal since Russell had thrown all of hers away. She had cried for days, but both he and Judy had been adamant; she was too old for toys. To be handed one without even asking brought tears to the corners of her eyes. Quickly, she sniffed them away, squeezing her eyes tightly shut and savoring the familiar feeling of holding the stuffed object. She was too wrapped up in it to notice that Santana and Brittany had gone still, and were now exchanging troubled glances over her head. To Brittany's surprise, it was Santana who moved first, gently combing through the damp, snarled hair with her fingertips.

"It's okay sweetheart; you can cry," she murmured pacifyingly, stroking the girl's hair with soothing hands. She wasn't entirely unprepared when Quinn turned abruptly with a whimper and buried her face in her neck, body shuddering. The sound of quiet sobs muffled by raven hair filled the small room. Santana held her close, rubbing calming circles into her back; hearing Quinn cry nearly broke her heart.

Slowly, so as not to frighten the younger girl, Brittany moved behind her so that she, too, was pressed against her. Together, she and Santana cradled Quinn between them, not speaking, but simply letting her cry. She had been through so much in the past day, let alone her life, that it seemed the only thing to do. It was in that moment that it struck Santana exactly how difficult this was going to be.

How could she have assumed that they would be good parents to someone who needed so much extra care, or even good parents at all? Santana didn't know how she could have presumed that they would be able to give Quinn everything she needed. All earlier cockiness from the courtroom was gone, to be replaced by a feeling of wild helplessness. How were they possibly going to help Quinn recover, especially while being good parents at the same time?

And then another feeling swept over Santana, startling her in its force; one of intense love, a fierce determination, a need to protect, to nourish; to comfort and care for the young girl in her arms. Even preoccupied as she was, the Latina was shocked by the power of what she was feeling; something that was completely new and foreign to her. Her love for Brittany, which had previously seemed unmatchable, was now equaled by a fierce need to care for Quinn – but not separately, she realized; it was _paired_ to her love of the blonde. Was this was it was to be a mother?

Maybe they had overestimated their abilities to an extent, Santana realized, nestling Quinn closer, but they were going to do their best. And that, she decided, was more than anyone else could say.

**A/N: Again, reviews are my lovely angels sent from heaven that make me write. If you have any suggestions, please let me know. **


	5. Five

**A/N: Hey all. I feel like I've rushed this chapter a bit, and kind of like it's going nowhere, but this is moving slowly for a reason. I'm working at it. I don't want too much angst at one time, either. This isn't intended to be an overly angsty story.**

**For those of you who are wondering about the rating, it's currently M because of language. Not saying that there won't be more than that later on (there definitely will be) but I'm keeping it M right now because I don't want anybody accidentally reading it who has a problem with bad language.**

_"There are many great deeds done in the small struggles of life." - Victor Hugo_

Quinn lay awake, tossing and turning restlessly beneath the covers before finally curling into a fetal position, sucking her thumb. Ever since she was younger, the dark had terrified her, and strange houses only served to worsen the fear. The silence was too much – she wished Santana and Brittany had stayed with her. At least they had tucked her in; something she had never expected them to do.

Tears came to Quinn's eyes at the memory, still fresh, of Santana's soothing murmurs; the tenderness in Brittany's hands as she had settled the young girl into bed. No one had ever cared for her with such attentiveness. The most that Judy had ever done was to yell at her that she was going to bed too early – what was a teenager like herself doing in bed at seven o'clock? She should be up until three in the morning like a normal rebellious young adult! She had never, _ever_ tucked her in.

Despite her overwhelming insecurities, Quinn felt for certain that she was safe with Santana and Brittany. The simple act of being attended to with kindness had assured her that, for the moment at least, she would not be hurt. The two women had been so good to her; Quinn's adult mind worried that she would be neglected, but little Quinn wasn't afraid. Nice people wouldn't mistreat her.

She loved Brittany – the dancer was warm and motherly, as well as completely understanding – but something drew Quinn to Santana even more. The Latina woman radiated a gentleness around Quinn that she seemed to suppress in the presence of all others besides her girlfriend.

She loved them both.

Quinn let out a whimper, her calm thoughts interrupted by a creak from somewhere upstairs. The little girl knew that there were people in the apartment above, but noises in the dark frightened her. Was it something coming to get her? Had Judy and Russell found her and come to take her back; would they force her to come home with them? Would they hurt Santana and Brittany?

Unconsciously, Quinn's whimpers grew louder; she shut her eyes, yanking the covers over her head to hide beneath them, barely breathing. Maybe if she didn't move, they wouldn't see her. Hopefully they would come in, see the empty bed, and go search somewhere else. It was so _dark_. She let out a squeal of surprise as the sounds above continued, beginning as a particularly loud squeak sounded from directly overhead. She hoped they wouldn't find her, or if they did . . . well, she hoped they'd do it quickly, that was all.

"San, did you hear that?" Santana glanced up from her novel, scrunching her nose. She listened for a moment, starting to shake her head in dissent, when the low sobs reached her ears. She sat up straighter.

"Yes."

"Quinn?" At her girlfriend's concerned nod, Brittany placed her own book upside-down on her lap. She squinted over her reading glasses.

"Should we both go to her?" Santana hesitated; she didn't want to overwhelm Quinn with the two of them trying to comfort her. Then again, she might need Brittany to distract the girl again. It would probably be better for the two of them to go, especially if they were to become any good at this. They would need lots of practice.

"Let's go," she nodded the affirmative. Neither girl bothered to mark their place as they stood, quickly moving down the short hallway to the guest bedroom that now belonged to Quinn. Opening the door, Santana stumbled immediately over a stool lying in her path, the noise of the impact followed by low cursing only causing Quinn to whimper louder from where she lay curled in the center of the bed.

"Ow, _fuck._ Stupid fucking chair._"_

"Don't swear, San_ – _Q? Q, I'm going to turn the light on, okay? Don't get scared," Brittany cautioned, fumbling her way through the darkened room to flip on the bedside lamp. When the dim light flooded out, bathing the room in low shades, Santana noticed Quinn's position and immediately forgot the pain in her shin. She limped the rest of the way to the bed, only stopping for a moment to contemplate before crawling beneath the covers.

"Quinnie, it's okay, we're here now. You're safe," she whispered, lifting the sheets to reveal Quinn's tear-streaked face. The little girl whimpered, curling into a tighter ball. Santana noticed the manner in which she folded her arms over her chest protectively, drawing her knees up in front of her stomach. She had seen this position so many times – in the children she worked with, in Kurt, and in Brittany. And though she hated to admit it, she wasn't stupid enough to pretend that she herself had never done the same.

"Is little Quinnie scared?" Brittany's voice came from behind Quinn; she, too, had crawled into the bed to lie beside her. Quinn let out a tiny sob, and nodded.

Pulling the girl into her arms at the sound, Santana shot Brittany a significant look across the bed. Brittany took the hint and moved closer, wrapping herself around Quinn in a mimic of their earlier position. Santana hoped that this would work; she had tried a version of it with Brittany in the first years after she had moved to New York. The close contact sometimes helped to ease stress or impending panic. Sometimes, with much smaller children, it could be used to loosely imitate the feeling that a newborn experiences when being held by its mother for the first time. Usually, Santana only tried it with children who were toddlers or even younger. However, Quinn's case was different; hopefully her mind was wired enough into the mannerisms of a baby that she could be helped in the same way.

Santana enfolded Quinn in her arms and concentrated only on projecting a sense of calm into the girl's body. The warmth of being held would not be enough alone; she needed to find a way to reduce Quinn's anxiety. There were several types of therapy she had been trained in – she could try one of them . . . no. Screw this. She was a mother now, no longer a damned social worker.

Almost as soon as the thought had occurred to her, Santana's ears caught the soft sound of Brittany's voice saying something else to Quinn . . . no, not talking . . . she was singing.

"_Come Josephine in my flying machine . . . going up, she goes . . . up she goes . . ." _Immediately, Santana began to sing softly along, their voices hushed in the dark, like the whisper of paintbrushes across a blank canvas. _"Balance yourself like a bird on a beam . . . in the air, she goes . . . there she goes . . ."_ Quinn's sobs quieted to sniffles; her face pressed into Santana's chest, she only shook. Senses dull with exhaustion, she felt the warmth of Brittany's arms wrapped around her.

"_Up, up, a little bit higher . . . oh my, the moon is on fire! . . ."_ a sleepy, almost silent murmur came from Quinn as she softly joined in the last lines.

"_Come Josephine in my flying machine . . . going up . . . all on . . . goodbye . . ."_

* * *

Quinn's eyes flew open. For a moment, the room seemed to spin as she sat up, completely disoriented. It settled after a moment when the realization hit her. She was in her new home – Santana had brought her home, had _adopted_ her. She was her _daughter_ now, and Santana had promised that if she wanted to, she would never have to be Big Quinn again.

She could be Little Quinn forever.

The room she was in certainly indicated that a little girl lived there. Bookcases lined two of the walls, crammed with stuffed animals and picture books decorated with covers of lions and bears and imaginary creatures that Quinn had never even heard of. There were bureaus topped with empty picture frames and small lamps; a comfy-looking rocking chair stood in the corner, and she could see a small door open to a closet full of hanging clothes. For a moment, casting her inquisitive stare around, Quinn wondered if someone else lived there. Then the small, battered suitcase in the corner caught her eye, and she realized.

This was _her_ bedroom.

Turning curiously to look about, she jumped slightly at the sight of Santana standing beside the bed, dressed comfortably in a black singlet and grey sleep shorts. Her raven locks were gathered into a messy bun on the top of her head. She smiled at the sight of Quinn's wide eyes, moving to stand nearer to the little girl.

"Can you say good morning, sweetheart?" Brittany appeared behind Santana in the doorway. The Latina smiled at her girlfriend, noting that her expression nearly matched Quinn's. The younger blonde ducked her head shyly, shaking her head. Away from the excitement of last night, the daylight made her realize just how shy she was around the two women. "No? How about 'hi'?" Brittany asked. Quinn paused for a long moment before slowly nodding.

"Hi," she whispered softly, her voice small. Brittany beamed at her; in several long strides, she had crossed the room to kneel beside the little girl.

"Good morning to you too, Quinnie-bear," she cooed, brushing her thumb across Quinn's cheek and making her giggle. "Are you ready for breakfast?" Quinn's eyes brightened; with a tiny squeal, she pushed the covers back, sitting up on her knees with her arms outstretched.

"Baba?" she asked hopefully. Santana and Brittany laughed at the eagerness in the girl's expression.

"Of course," agreed Brittany, opening her arms to the little girl. Quinn paused, sucking hard on her thumb in contemplation. Would Brittany be able to carry her? What if she was too heavy and hurt her?

As if sensing her hesitation, Santana moved closer and stroked silky blonde hair in reassurance.

"Brittany's really strong, baby," she assured her. "She can pick you up no problem." Large hazel eyes gazed back into deep brown, innocent and trusting. Slowly, Quinn nodded; a small squeak of happiness escaped her. Before she could blink, she was out of bed, cradled bridal-style by Brittany's strong, supporting arms. She giggled.

"Let's get you changed first, huh? San can go get your baba while we get you dressed," Brittany suggested. As Quinn nodded, Santana stepped quietly out of the room, going to warm the bottle of milk. Quinn was going to need real food as well, but they might as well start off with this. Maybe her childlike mind would allow her body to be more like a baby's. Certainly, something had to be done – the blonde was too skinny for someone of her physical age and height; while working on Quinn's case, Santana had been forced to endure long explanations by pediatricians – explanations that as a mere social worker she would rather not have been subjected too. But this was different. She was a mother now. She needed to know how to properly care for Quinn.

Even Brittany now knew the awful details associated with the younger blonde's past. They didn't know exactly what the circumstances had been, but Quinn had never been adequately nourished. She had never been given a suitable amount of food on a daily basis, and from what Judy Fabray had told them, she had never been breastfed or even bottle-fed as a young child. Her bones were weak both from lack of proper nutrients and multiple breaks. She was too small; her ribs stuck out, she continually lost her balance, and she suffered from severe headaches and persistent fatigue.

They needed to get Quinn healthy.

Removing the bottle from the warmer, Santana tested the temperature on the inside of her wrist. Perfect. Now there was only the problem of whether or not Quinn would take the bottle. She hurried back to the bedroom, being careful not to trip and spill the milk.

Brittany seemed to have already succeeded in changing Quinn; the smaller girl lay on her back on a blanket spread across the floor, dressed in a fresh diaper and a white tee shirt patterned with flowers, as the dancer rummaged through the cedar closet for an outfit. When she saw Santana, a bright grin spread across her face. The Latina knelt beside her head, tucking strands of wispy blonde hair behind her ears. Santana gently took hold of too-tiny wrists, holding up the bottle where Quinn could see it.

"Baba?" Santana smiled indulgently.

"Yes, sweetheart," she confirmed. "This is for you." A slightly nervous expression filling her eyes, Quinn tentatively reached up with both hands, closing them around the bottle, brushing against Santana's fingers as the Latina let go. As soon as she felt the weight of the bottle in her hands, Quinn automatically brought it down to her mouth. She had been hesitant, unsure of what she was doing, but the moment Santana handed her the object, she knew what to do. Eagerly, she began to suck, not even noticing the smile Santana gave her as she hummed to herself in contentment. This felt right.

"Britt, look at her." Brittany turned from where she was digging through the various hangers, a smile falling to her lips at the sight of the little girl babbling to herself quietly, milk dribbling from the corners of her mouth at one point as she opened her mouth a little too wide.

"She's adorable, San." Santana barely looked up from watching Quinn, only sparing her girlfriend a brief glance. She hardly felt as though she could look away – it was as if Quinn could disappear if she didn't pay absolute attention. Brittany noticed the tenseness in the Latina's body, the anxiousness concealed behind the attentive, caring look in her eyes, and for a moment, she worried. What if this proved to be too much for Santana? Quinn couldn't handle being left behind _again_.

But then she also saw the love hidden there; saw it in every slight movement of the brunette – as she carefully helped Quinn readjust her grip on the bottle, as she brushed at the soft hair, and knew that it would be all right.

"She's so little, San," Brittany said softly, placing her hands on her girlfriend's shoulders even as she kept her eye on the blonde. "I mean, she's taller than you, but she's just so _small_." Her voice was almost awed. Santana, too, kept her eyes on the little girl as she spoke.

"I know, Britts. I'd like to try her on one of the routines we use for undernourished kids, but I don't think they would work. She needs something extra, you know? I just don't know what it is yet," she spoke thoughtfully. Brittany nodded, and continued to rub her girlfriend's shoulders slowly, attempting to release some of the built-up tension that she held.

"I'm sure you'll think of it eventually." Santana just nodded.

* * *

Quinn sat on the sofa, the upper half of her body curled into Brittany's, her thumb corked firmly in her mouth. The tiny grey kitten pressed softly into her stomach with its paws, sound asleep against her skin. Her lamb was tucked beneath an arm. In such a position, she would normally have felt sleepy, but Santana was playing her guitar and singing a sort of lullaby that held her eyes open in fascination. Now, comfortably nestled against Brittany, her gaze was free to examine her new Latina mother.

Quinn blinked curiously, noting a pattern of dark ink that wound itself from the base of Santana's collarbone around to the back of her neck. She had never understood the notion of a tattoo, but she felt as though she remembered someone telling her that they all held a special significance; maybe someday she would ask Santana what it meant. Moving on, her eyes travelled to Santana's face, taking in the high cheekbones, angular nose, and delicate, arching eyebrows; the curve of her jaw as she sang, and the long eyelashes shielding dark, expressive eyes.

Santana looked almost regal with the dim light crossing her features, splaying across her fingertips as they strummed at the guitar strings, and Quinn was stunned halfway into silence. She had thought of Santana so far as merely the woman who had rescued her, who had cared enough to take her graciously into her own home; to feed her, clothe her, and care for her despite the oddity of her condition. Yet, watching her now, she saw that the Latina was more than just a savior. She was a human being, too; she had thoughts, and nothing had ever made Quinn more curious than wondering what those thoughts might be.

The music, too, fascinated her. All her life, she had loved to sing, but she had always been forced to do it in secret, when Judy and Russell couldn't hear. And now here was Santana, also playing music, but she was not singing. Quinn hadn't known that there were other ways to make music sound so like this. Santana was coaxing sound out of a piece of wood with only the very tips of her fingers. Music was so strange; it was expressive and emotional – what Santana was playing sounded as if it were almost _alive_, and Quinn wondered.

What made people beautiful? Quinn knew it had something to do with music. It wasn't necessarily _sound_ music, but a different kind. It was almost as if they _were_ the music. Some complimented each other; some did not. Some danced along.

Santana played. Brittany danced. And Quinn listened.

Maybe it made sense to her, now.

As Santana played, she was almost entirely absorbed in her music, lost in a space between the sound and the air, but not so lost that the words didn't register when Quinn spoke abruptly to Brittany.

"Can I call you Mommy?" Though slightly surprised, Brittany barely missed a beat before responding, and her voice was surer than Santana had heard it in years.

"Of course you can." Santana listened to the two of them for a moment, head bent as she continued to play; she knew Brittany would be good for Quinn. And Quinn seemed to feel completely comfortable with her. But Mommy? That was awfully fast; not that she had any complaints. It was only startling.

"Mami?" At first, Santana assumed that she was still talking to Brittany. But then the different pronunciation registered, as well as Brittany's lack of response, and it clicked. She opened her eyes to see Quinn pointing at _her_, looking up at Brittany with a questioning expression. Santana drew in a sharp breath.

_Mami._

Staring wide-eyed at Quinn, Santana nearly froze, not even noticing that her fingers continued to play without her directing them. She could hardly breathe. Of course, she should have expected this – had she really thought that the girl would call them both by their first names? She had just signed a form that said she was a _parent_, for God's sake!

She knew that a few signatures on a piece of paper didn't make her a mother, but the word jolted her to the core. It was one she had heard so many times in her head, imagining over and over again what it would be like to hold her own child, yet all the while thinking to herself that it would never happen. She had thought that her life course was set in stone; her world was going to revolve around Brittany, and their friends, and maybe other places and people later in life. But so much had changed; her entire life had been altered by the simple motion of passing pen across paper.

Maybe she should start accepting that everything was subject to change.

With a firm knowledge somewhere deep in the back of her body that she was doing the right thing, Santana nodded, gaze fixed only on eyes; the curious hazel of Quinn's; the shocked, proud blue of Brittany's. Reaching the end of her song, she gazed back at them both steadily, the echoes of the final chord still lingering, fading away into the air, before closing her eyes.

She could feel the loving burn of their stares, even after they had long looked away.

**Any suggestions you have, please message me. They're helpful. :) I will almost certainly use them.**

**Review review.**


	6. Six

**A/N: I do apologize for taking so long, but it's been a hectic school year so far. I barely have time to sleep. I'm really glad I got this updated though; hopefully it's to everyone's liking. However, I am in desperate need of suggestions after the next chapter, which I have vaguely planned. I ran into major writer's block, so if you have any brilliant ideas, I'm all ears.**

**gogolax: At first, I balked at your suggestion, but then I realized just how much sense it made. I agree, and while that won't happen for a long time, it's definitely going to at some point. It really is the best thing for all of them.**

_"She acted like it was the moon I had just hung up in the sky and plugged in all the stars. Like I was that good."_

_- The Bean Trees_

Quinn's eyes darted around the room nervously, picking up hints of apprehension here and there in the tight expressions of the occupants of the green, nylon-upholstered chairs. In her left hand, she held the stuffed lamb – now christened Lambie, in a fit of inventiveness – and in her right, Brittany's fingers lay twined. She wasn't even aware of her own worried hyperventilation until she felt Santana's hands come up to stroke her hair in reassurance.

She hated doctor's offices.

"Lucy Fabray?" Quinn flinched at the sound of her first name, prompting Santana to drop her hands to her shoulders to rub soothingly. She turned to bury her face in her mami's chest; adults were scary. She didn't understand how most people could stand to stay big for such a long time.

"It's Quinn," Brittany corrected, standing at the sight of the middle-aged nurse holding a clipboard. The older woman granted the dancer a kind smile.

"Quinn Fabray, then. Doctor Harper is ready to see her now." Quinn stiffed in Santana's coat, feeling the firm bones of the Latina's chest pressed against her forehead. Maybe if she just stayed here and refused to move they wouldn't make her go in. She felt safe this way, cradled close to her new mother. She didn't want to go.

"Quinnie-bear, you've got to go in and see the nice lady now. She needs to make sure you're healthy," Brittany urged, sharing a look with her girlfriend. She understood Quinn's reluctance to be in the presence of doctors, but they needed to be good parents to the little blonde, and that included ensuring that she was in good health. They had chosen this doctor specifically after a talk with Rachel, who insisted that her baby cousin had been seeing her for years, and that there could be no one better for a person like Quinn.

"If she's scared, you can go in with her," the nurse offered helpfully. Santana reached down to extract Quinn's face from her jacket, but was met by muffled whines of protest.

"Would that make you feel better, Q?" she asked. "Mami and Mommy will be right there with you. You can hold Mommy's hand the whole time, if you'd like." The coaxing tone, as well as the offer, lured Quinn out of the jacket. Santana smiled at the sight of huge, nervous hazel eyes.

"All da time?" Quinn repeated hopefully. Santana nodded.

"All the time, Quinnie," she confirmed with an encouraging nod. Quinn hesitated, chewing her lower lip worriedly. The three women waited patiently for a response, knowing that it wouldn't do to push the girl. Quinn needed to know that she was safe.

"Otay," she whispered finally, the word tiny and cut-off in the sound of fabric and rustling magazine pages. She turned to Brittany with an anxious look. "Mommy hold tight," she pleaded. The adults smiled indulgently; Santana's eyes softened at the sight of her girlfriend reaching out to take the slender, little hand in her own.

"Of course I will," Brittany promised. The nurse nodded patiently, eyes appraising the trio to confirm that they were ready before beckoning for them to follow her across the waiting room. Brittany went first, feeling the desperate, nervous grip of the younger girl around her fingers. Santana followed, carrying Quinn's lamb and watching attentively to make sure that both of her girls had everything they needed.

Quinn cringed slightly at the sight of the pristine white hallway lined with doors and checkered with green, white, and blue tile. Clinics were scary – they reminded her of her childhood, being brought in by concerned school nurses, and, later, guidance counselors; long strings of people who had sought to fix whatever they deemed was wrong with her. She knew that Santana and Brittany wouldn't allow anyone to hurt her, but try as she might, she couldn't wipe away the association of white walls and sadness; pain, terror, and that feeling of helplessness she knew so well. The bright fluorescent lights only served to enhance the fear of the memory of cold metal piercing her skin and clinical, clipped tones of unemotional official people who had crowned themselves kings with titles and the unfeeling facades behind jobs they never even wanted.

She didn't ever want to be around people who didn't care again.

"You can put on one of the gowns in the drawer there, and leave your underwear on," the nurse directed with a gesture towards the cabinet, having ushered them into one of the small rooms off the hall. "Doctor Harper will be in to see you in just a minute." She bustled out, leaving Brittany and Santana to help Quinn struggle out of her street clothes and into one of the unflattering white johnnies that fastened in little bows down the back. Quinn flinched inwards on herself, hating the look of her scrawny legs and bunched up socks in the bleached-out light. She hadn't been in one of these in so long.

Seeing the blonde's discomfort, Brittany hurriedly took the opportunity to tug gently on a strand of blonde hair.

"Don't worry so much, sweetie," she soothed. "Your mami and I aren't going anywhere. See? Mami's right there. And after this, we can go and have hot chocolate at Rachel's. Remember, the lady who sings on Broadway? She'd love to finally meet you, honey." Quinn raised her head, her thin blonde eyebrows quirking questioningly.

"Hot chocolate?" she whispered hopefully. Brittany cracked a smile.

"That's right," she agreed. Just then, a light knock came on the door, before a young woman in a white coat slipped in.

"Hello there guys," she greeted cheerfully, clicking the door shut behind her. "My name's Doctor Harper, but you can call me Dani. You must be Brittany and Santana," she nodded, looking at the two older women. Her eyes sparkled with a warmth that eased Quinn's fears ever so slightly.

"We are," Santana confirmed, standing quickly to shake Dani's hand. Dani smiled at the two of them before her eyes came to rest on Quinn, sitting huddled on the edge of the exam table.

"And you must be Quinn," she acknowledged, keeping her tone light but making sure that she didn't step too close and startle the nervous patient. Quinn bit her lip, but didn't reply. Silently, Brittany squeezed her hand. Dani glanced at each of the room's occupants in turn, sensing awkwardness in the sudden silence, and knew that something had to be done to keep everyone from getting antsy with anxiety.

"Here," she said suddenly, struck with inspiration. She reached up to untangle the stethoscope from around her neck. Walking slowly towards Quinn, she offered it to the girl. "Do you want to hear what a heartbeat sounds like?" With a quick glance towards Santana to confirm that it was okay, Quinn nodded. Brittany moved closer, brushing hair from the little girl's eyes.

"Isn't that neat, Quinnie?" she asked brightly. "You can listen to mami's – I know she won't mind." She cracked a smile at her girlfriend. Shooting her a mock-glare, Santana allowed herself to be steered to the side of the table while Dani carefully arranged the device around Quinn's neck, and showed her where to press the little metal disk.

Quinn's eyes widened at the sound of the steady beats filling her ears, pounding in rhythm like a bassline. Immediately, through her fascination, she felt a distinct sense of calm pass over her. Her tense shoulders relaxed, and her hands stopped fidgeting; she dropped them to her lap as she shut her eyes, continuing to listen in awe. Brittany and Santana stared in disbelief. Dani merely chuckled.

"I thought that would work," she said, nodding as she crossed the room to begin retrieving the tools she would need later on. "We call it MWS – mock-womb state," she explained, seeing the confused expressions of the other two women. "It's not a widely used term; we developed the acronym here because the use of it tends to be successful. It's a mindset induced by the sound of a heartbeat, usually that of a parent or someone familiar – birth moms' are typically the most effective. It tricks very young children into thinking that they're back in the womb. It's generally only used on infants and young toddlers, but because of the uniqueness of Quinn's case, I thought it might work on her as well." Brittany and Santana sat speechless in wonderment, simply staring at her. Dani chuckled again.

"I'm guessing I just handed you a whole new way to calm her down," she said with a smile. Brittany nodded, and then snapped out of her surprise to ask a few necessary questions.

"What will you be doing with her today?" she asked curiously, eyeing the assortment of instruments laid across the counter. Dani snapped her gloves on, turning to face the inquiring young mother with a comforting look.

"Just a general physical exam, and maybe a blood test or two to test her glucose levels. And I'll also need to ask questions – Santana can probably answer most of them, as she worked as a social worker on Quinn's case before her adoption, but at her next appointment, a few will have to be for Quinn and Quinn alone," she added seriously, assuming a slightly more professional demeanor.

Brittany nodded. Santana only assumed a calm but cautious look, privately resolved that if at any point Quinn should become uncomfortable, she would bring the entire ordeal to an immediate halt. She began to move away from the stethoscope, only to be stopped by a short gesture from Dani.

"I'd actually like you to stay there while this happens, if you don't mind," she admitted, moving to the side of the table. "It might keep her calmer than she would be otherwise."

"What are you going to do to her?" The words escaped Santana without her permission; she saw Quinn blink beneath her closed eyelids at the magnified sound. Dani sent the concerned woman a reassuring glance as she wrapped the blood pressure cuff carefully around Quinn's arm.

"I'm not going to hurt her," she said firmly. The Latina had the decency to lower her eyes at the knowing look the doctor shot her. "I'm just a little worried that she might panic. Some of these instruments are cold, and she's not used to being touched." Deciding that it would probably better serve her dignity to not make eye contact, Santana nodded with her gaze fastened to the floor.

Dani shook her head. These two sure were protective.

* * *

They had reached question time. Quinn had submitted to the physical exam with hardly a whimper, but now it was time to get a little background on the girl before proceeding.

Removing the disk from her own chest at Dani's signal, Santana gently tugged the stethoscope from Quinn's ears. A half second, and Quinn's eyes snapped open for the briefest of moments before squeezing them tightly shut as she extended her arms towards Santana with a low whimper that was somewhere between a _no_ and a _mama_. Santana's own eyes fluttered closed; she allowed the girl to fall into a hug, immediately enfolding her in her arms.

Quinn let out a high-pitched whine around her thumb and nestled as closely as possible into the warm, strong arms, overwhelmed. She was completely bewildered. What had just happened? The moment the sound of Santana's heartbeat had entered her ears, she had gone into a sort of trance; it was as if her brain had stopped working as soon as they heard the sound. It was so confusing. Whimpering softly again, she snuggled even closer, feeling warm, salty tears dampen her cheeks and the thin material of Santana's blouse.

The Latina was silent as she pulled the little blonde as close to her body as she could, cradling her head against her chest; feeling Quinn relax as the familiar sound met her ears, so much quieter now and separated from her by layers of clothing and skin. She didn't know what the emotion was that tugged so persistently at the center of her ribcage; only that it couldn't be ignored, and that it was urging her to hold the little girl ever tighter to her chest. Almost unconsciously, she sniffled, feeling tears leave the corners of her eyes and begin to slip down her face.

Brittany and Dani watched for a minute in silence before the former crossed the small space that separated her from her family and wrapped her arms around Santana from behind. The brunette turned her head to bury her face in her girlfriend's neck, body shaking with silent sobs. Brittany let her cry, pressing her fingertips into slender shoulders and just holding on. Dani stood by respectfully, deciding not to intervene, but watching the strange family curiously.

At last, when Quinn had ceased trembling and her own flow of tears had tapered off, Santana turned back to Dani, feeling comforted beneath the hands that still rested protectively on her shoulders.

"I'm sorry about that," she apologized, wiping tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand. Dani smiled softly, understanding, as she passed the woman a box of tissues. She bit back a wider grin as Santana tenderly dried Quinn's eyes, seeming to forget completely about her own.

"Don't apologize," she said gently. "I think I'm correct when I say that that was the first time you felt a physical connection to her – am I right?" At Santana's shuddering nod, Brittany appeared confused.

"But how can she?" she asked innocently. "Quinn isn't actually related to either of us." Dani nodded slowly.

"It often happens the first time. Regardless of whether there is any genetic link or not, the reaction of the child will kick start a reaction within the mother. It's an intensely emotional ordeal for both. Your situation is most likely exacerbated by Quinn's lack of a maternal figure in her life from an early age, as well as Santana's inability to bear children. What you just saw was the two of them finding in each other what they have so far been forced to live without. What they are feeling right now is probably extremely overwhelming." Brittany breathed in deeply, feeling her heart fill to the bursting with love.

"What should I do?" She hadn't meant to sound helpless; it was more of a plea to be a part of the connection that had just grown so strong right before her very eyes. Dani tilted her head thoughtfully, considering.

"Well . . . while in that trance-like state, their mindset is almost the same as that of a mind in subspace. They are emotionally susceptible, and the aftereffects aren't unlike shock. The most important thing you can do is to provide comfort," she concluded. "Hold them; keep them warm. Talk to them. They'll be fine right now, but later – say tonight, they'll probably both be a little shaken."

"You said you had questions for us?" Santana broke in. Her voice was shuddery and halting, broken here and there by deep, shaky inhalations as she attempted to regain control of herself. Dani straightened up, reaching for a clipboard and tucking a pencil behind her ear.

"I did," she confirmed, scanning through her notes. "First of all, I need to know the history of Quinn's abuse . . . if you're all right to discuss that now. If not, I can come back to that later." Santana shook her head, blinking as if to clear her thoughts.

"No, I want to get it over with," she said suddenly, almost interrupting. "Please." Dani nodded.

"Very well – has she ever been sexually abused?" Brittany winced at the question, and Dani paused. "Miss Pierce, would you prefer to leave the room with Quinn while we discuss this? If you would rather not hear this discussed, I can speak to Santana alone." Brittany shook her head no. "All right then. Santana?"

"Yes."

"Do you know what age Quinn was at this time?"

"From what we know, and if we can assume Judy Fabray to be truthful in her reports, it started when she was around eleven."

"And did it end before her rescue?"

"No."

"Was she adequately nourished as a child?"

"No."

"All right." Dani scribbled a few additions to her notes, and then looked up. Her eyes took on a slightly less serious look as she watched the two of them thoughtfully. "Might I make a suggestion?" she asked after a moment, setting down the clipboard. Brittany nodded, rubbing calming circles into Santana's shoulders with her thumbs.

"Please." Dani leaned forward, her expression bright and earnest.

"While you two are doing a wonderful job of caring for Quinn, she is still far more underweight than can be considered healthy. In fact, if she lives only on the diet of an average adult, she will probably never be quite as heavy as I as a doctor would prefer. However, if you would be willing to give it a try and ignore the initial oddness of it . . . I think it would be beneficial for Quinn to try breastfeeding." After the initial silence that met her words, it was Brittany who tentatively spoke.

"But . . . Quinn is an adult . . ." she began.

"I'd like to cut you off right there, if you don't mind," Dani interrupted respectfully. "We need to remember that while Quinn is physically an adult, she is psychologically extremely young. It would not serve as her main source of nourishment so much as a supplement, as well as providing emotional security." When Brittany and Santana did nothing but exchange uneasy glances, Dani leaned forward even more, clasping her hands together tightly in an effort to convey just how important this could be.

"I am personally convinced that Quinn would benefit immensely from not only the increased nourishment but also the feeling of comfort and connection. The decision is ultimately up to you, but I would encourage you to seriously consider it. If you are in doubt, you can always ask Quinn herself."

Without further ado, Brittany extracted herself from behind Santana and moved to look Quinn in the eye.

"Hey Quinnie bear?" she murmured, stroking the blonde head still hidden in Santana's blouse. "What do you think about that? Would that make you feel safer if mami or mommy could feed you like that?" Slowly, Quinn's face peeked out of the shirt to peer at Brittany's curious face.

Quinn debated. Would they really let her do that? They wouldn't think that it was too weird that she was a big girl doing that? She knew for a fact that it would make her feel safe; she had wondered sometimes about it, but always pushed the thought away. No one would ever let her do that. But now that they were offering, she suddenly wasn't sure. What if they thought it was too strange?

As if seeing her uncertainty, Brittany brought both hands up to cradle the blonde's face, watching the little girl intently.

"Sweetie, if that's something you want, you can tell us," she encouraged softly. "You don't need to be shy – your mami and I will do everything we can to make you feel safe and secure." Unthinkingly, Quinn nuzzled closer into Santana's chest, gripping at the material of the shirt with tiny hands. She tried to imagine.

A flash hit her, of Judy standing in her room at bedtime, yelling at her because she wanted to sleep with a nightlight on. Judy would never have done anything like this for her, and here were Santana and Brittany, attending to her every need; caring for her as if she were a precious thing that they couldn't bear to lose. In that moment, Quinn understood just how lucky she was.

"Quinnie, if you want this, it's okay," Santana whispered, holding the little girl close. In any other circumstance but this, she would balk at the idea of someone breastfeeding a person Quinn's age, but their situation was already so far out of the range of the ordinary that it hardly seemed to matter. Her own insecurities and emotions surrounding it – such as being able to breastfeed Quinn but not her own child – she would deal with later. This needed to be about Quinn; it needed to be her decision. Her wants and needs came first.

Hearing the gentle words of encouragement from both women, Quinn pulled away from her mami's protective embrace long enough to whisper the two words.

"Yes pwease." Then she buried her face back in Santana's shirt to hide the flush of embarrassment that was gradually creeping up her cheeks and neck to the very tips of her ears. Santana's arms tightened around her, and she heard Brittany's question from afar, nestled somewhere comfortable between shame and sleepiness.

"Which one of us should do it?" Brittany wondered.

"Ideally, I'd say both of you," was Dani's response. "However, as you are working, Brittany, I'd say it would be less complicated for Santana to do it. Working and breastfeeding can be quite the hassle." Still curled in, Quinn felt Santana nod. "I'll write a prescription for the medication you'll need – you can pick it up on the way out. You can get the receptionist to give you a booklet on how to manage it."

Quinn was becoming sleepy; she barely registered the goodbyes exchanged between the older women. Then Brittany was hefting her into her arms to carry her bridal style back out to the waiting room, and then the car; tucking her safely into the backseat with Lambie and Santana, and singing to her softly as they drove away.

"Hey Quinnie bear," she heard Santana whisper as they drove down a quiet section of the highway, the midmorning sun fluttering through her eyelids. "You see the sun?" Sleepily, she nodded, the movement fairly aching with exhaustion.

"Sun," she murmured drowsily, clutching Lambie to her chest inside the heavy coat.

"That's right sweetie. You know that you can have anything, Quinnie? Anything in the whole wide world – anything you ask for."

"'Nything," Quinn mumbled.

"Anything you want, and I'll give it to you, Quinnie. You can ask for the world; the ocean; an empty seashore, and I'll give them to you. And if you ask for the sun, Quinnie . . . I'll reach right up, all the way up past the clouds, and I'll pluck it right out of the sky."

**The inspiration to use Dani for this came from who knows where. We'll definitely be seeing more of her just as Quinn's doctor but if you'd like to see her as more than that please let me know. However, there will be no Dantana or hints thereof in this story.**

**Next chapter will see lots of Faberry friendship! And possibly Kurt/Quinn friendship as well.**


	7. Seven

**A/N: Hello again all! I know it's been a while, but real life does get in the way. This is just a short one to tide you over until I can get more done (it shouldn't be long), but I hope you enjoy it. I know I promised a TON of Faberry in this chapter and that there isn't perhaps as much as you all hoped, but it's just a hint of what's to come, so here it is.**

_"The greatest thing you'll ever learn is just to love, and be loved in return." - Moulin Rouge_

Quinn's gaze roved the hallway in awe. Even for a simple building, the décor was decidedly impressive. In fact, she was rather under the impression that the apartment they were about to enter was inhabited by a fussy old lady rather than a young Broadway actress. Even so, she wondered at the taste of this unknown woman – the corridor was lined with dark wood paneling, odd assortments of marble sculptures, and a ridiculous number of tea lights.

The strangeness of the hallway combined with the idea of meeting another adult had Quinn shaking with nervousness. Sucking the thumb of the same hand that held Lambie, she gripped Brittany's hand tightly as Santana pressed the buzzer and the door immediately flew open with a bang. A tiny object made up of huge eyes and dark hair catapulted out of the doorway, colliding with Santana with such force that the small woman staggered backwards and nearly fell.

"_Santana! Britt-Britt!"_ Quinn jumped, startled by the shrillness of the new voice. Rachel Berry pulled back from the sudden and rather vigorous embrace, leaving Santana looking ruffled and slightly worse for the wear, though seeming to be secretly pleased by the warm welcome.

"Hobbit, I saw you three days ago."

"Yes, but not like this!" Rachel squealed, fairly shaking Santana by her upper arms. "You're a mother! Things are, like, totally different, now! Did you buy a minivan? Are you a member of the PTA? Have you found any grey hairs?" Quinn felt the beginnings of laughter seize Brittany, though the dancer did not release her from her comforting grasp.

"Rachel, I'm twenty-seven," Santana reminded the diva with an amused eyebrow raise. "I hope I won't be getting any grey hairs for a long time yet." Rachel merely beamed, staring at Santana for so long that the silence, while bright, was beginning to grow awkward.

"Rachel?" Santana prodded, a slightly concerned look entering her eyes. Rachel raised her if expectantly.

"So? Where is she?" she asked excitedly, waving her arms as if batting at a rather violent moth. Santana chuckled lowly, gesturing over the tiny singer's shoulder with an amused grin.

"She's right behind you, Berry," she told her; her smirk spoke of familiar laughter, as if this was a common situation. Rachel's doe eyes widened comically, and she whirled around where she stood. At the sight of Quinn, she brought both hands up to cover her mouth, a hush falling over her for once. Quinn dropped her eyes bashfully to the floor as the tiny brunette took a step towards her.

"Hi there sweetheart," Rachel cooed. Quinn chanced a look, and saw that the shorter woman was watching her with soft, understanding eyes. "I'm Rachel," she continued with gesture towards herself. "I'm so glad to finally meet you."

"Rachel's been our friend since high school, Quinn," Brittany added, bending down to press her cheek against the little girl's as she gestured to the starlet. "She's really, and she sings. Her voice is pretty, Quinnie – just like yours." Rachel beamed even brighter.

"Maybe we could sing together sometime!" she exclaimed softly, clasping her hands together in an animated show of anticipation. "I'd love to hear you sing, Quinn." Quinn nodded bashfully, ducking her head. She missed singing; Russell had never allowed it in the house. She still remembered the heavy beating she had received after she had attempted to push her luck.

"Come on in, ladies!" Rachel beckoned, abruptly remembering that they were standing idly in the hall. "I made hot chocolate. It's a special recipe." Santana scoffed.

"Is it vegan?" Rachel shot her a look.

"Maybe." The Latina sighed, but allowed the tiny brunette to lead them into the apartment, checking to be sure that Quinn was still clutching Brittany's hand.

Quinn's eyes went wide at the sight of Rachel's apartment – a huge, spacious area containing the living room, dining room, and large kitchen sprawled before them, the far wall composed entirely of windows that displayed a view of the entirety of Manhattan. The floors were of bright hardwood, strewn with throw rugs and bookcases, which were accompanied here and there by plump, cushy armchairs. A large couch occupied by an even larger yellow cat completed the picture.

"Is that your cat, Rach?"

"Hmm? Oh, him? No, actually, he's Kurt's. I just keep him here on the weekends while he's out of the city on business. His name is Ruffles. You want to pet him?" Quinn looked up, hopeful. She loved cats – when she had lived with Russell and Judy, they had never kept one, but she had made a habit of sharing scraps with strays in the alleyway near their house. Santana and Brittany's new kitten was too shy to play just now.

"Can I?" she whispered. Brittany squeezed her hand ever so slightly.

"May I, Quinnie, not can I," Santana corrected gently. Quinn bit her lip.

"May I?" Rachel smiled encouragingly at her, beckoning for the younger girl to approach the couch. Quinn took a slow, cautious step forward and stretched her hand out tentatively, hesitating before carefully laying a hand on the cat's thick fur. Her eyes shot nervously to Santana, unsure if she was doing the right thing. Murmuring something to her that the other two couldn't hear, the Latina moved towards her, placing a hand on her back and guiding her movements as she stroked the fur of the purring animal.

Rachel exchanged a glance with Brittany. In her white sundress and sneakers, holding her stuffed lamb so close, Quinn was the perfect picture of an innocent young child. As they watched her interact nervously with the cat, Santana hovering over her, it struck them both how fragile Quinn was. Brought up in such an unstable environment, surrounded by hatred and neglect, she had never known the love of a parent or the carefree nature of childhood. Her younger years, which should have been spent playing and being cared for, had been nothing short of horrific.

They were going to rebuild those years, piece by steady piece.

"Quinn, Rachel made hot chocolate, and I hear she's got markers," Brittany hinted temptingly, breaking up the quiet chatter between her girlfriend and the littler blonde. Quinn let out a tiny giggle.

"Draw?" she asked excitedly. Rachel nodded. With an easy wave of her hand, she summoned Quinn over to the large dining table, where paper and markers of all kinds were spread out. It almost looked as if Rachel had been in the middle of a project.

"Rach, were you drawing before we got here?" Brittany asked curiously, picking up a piece of paper with a half colored-in star on it. Rachel had the good grace to blush as she stammered out a denial, snatching the paper away from the dancer's hands with a heavy flourish.

"I absolutely was not." Santana grinned devilishly.

"Whatever you say, Hobbit."

"Did I ask you? You're rude."

"Excuse me? I'm an angel." Rachel snorted derisively.

"The angel that fell from Heaven."

* * *

"Auntie Wachel?" Quinn queried, pausing to frown at her paper in contemplation. She appeared to be concentrating hard; her tongue poked out from between her lips, and her brow was furrowed seriously.

Rachel immediately laid down her own markers and deserted her doodles of music notes in favor of scooting over to sit next to the little girl.

"What is it, honey?" she responded. Carefully, she swept back the blonde hair, tying a small portion back with a bit of white ribbon. Quinn didn't remove her eyes from the paper before her, squinting intently at the messy self-portrait she had created. Despite her older years, it was much less sophisticated than that of a young child. Perhaps drawing was too difficult for someone so young.

"Not done." Rachel frowned too, leaning over to get a better look. After a moment, she bounced back upright in her seat, seizing a yellow marker and adding a quick design onto the shirt of the slightly lopsided version of Quinn in the picture.

"There," she declared with an air of great accomplishment. "It's beautiful." Quinn tilted her head sideways, narrowing her eyes.

"Why star?" she wanted to know at last. Rachel's beaming grin continued to split the room in two.

"Because you're a star, Quinnie," she informed the girl authoritatively. "Like me." From the couch, Santana rolled her eyes. Nevertheless, she answered Quinn's next question with the affirmative.

"Yes, Quinnie bear. You're a star." Quinn squealed, clapping her hands together happily. Brittany smothered a grin at the sight; if they weren't careful, she could end up just like Rachel – not that she had a problem with Rachel, necessarily, but it was overwhelming enough to have just _one _of them around.

Quinn's eyes followed the movement of Rachel's hands as they laid elegant designs to paper; music notes, intricate doodles of guitars, and scattered lyrics sprinkled the corners of her artwork. Brittany had told her all about the brunette's work on Broadway and her ambitions in high school, but she hadn't mentioned that the diva loved music _this_ much. Did Rachel enjoy music as much as she did?

"Auntie Wachel?" she asked again. The response was immediate.

"Yes honey?"

"Sing?" A grin broke out across Rachel's face. With a flourish, the tiny brunette capped her marker and tossed it to the tabletop, practically leaping to her feet with enthusiasm. Nearly tripping over the cat in her haste, she was at the piano in a series of quick, skipping movements; Santana chuckled.

"You've just unleashed the wild animal Quinnie," she warned lightheartedly. Brittany scolded her with a light smack to the arm and stood, leading Quinn over to the piano where Rachel had already begun to play.

* * *

Brittany's hands moved in steady, sure motions, carefully combing the tangles from thick, damp blonde hair. Quinn sat motionless beneath her touch, squeezing Lambie to her chest, watching the mirror. Her eyes remained focused on the glass, not glancing anywhere but at her own reflection, and, occasionally, Brittany's. Her eyes roved her own face inquisitively; it had been months since she had seen herself in a mirror.

The last few weeks of her captivity had been spent locked in a room with no windows and no mirrors. Eighteen days spent hidden away, alone save sporadic visits from Russell, which were dreaded even more than the silence. From there, after her rescue, she had been transported to the social services center, where her life had been a muddled, foggy maze of corridors and rooms and important-looking people with clipboards.

Life with Brittany and Santana was so different.

Already, she _looked_ different; it had only been three days, and already her face was beginning to fill in ever so slightly. The scared, deadened look had left her eyes; expression had filtered slowly into her features in its place. She was still tiny, she knew, unconsciously lifting her arms to feel their weight, but she was no longer starving.

She had _been_ starving.

That was another huge alteration – before, she had been forced to beg for food, even going so far as to dig through the trashcans and dumpsters behind restaurants on her way home from school. Judy had always been too busy to feed her, and Russell had never been absorbed in anything but liquor – drinking and hitting Quinn were his favorite pastimes. As if she hadn't had enough of _that; _school had been an ongoing nightmare since she was three years old, old enough for Judy to leave her somewhere all day so that she wouldn't have to deal with her. Her entire knowledge of high school consisted of being hit, slushied, kicked, elbowed, yelled at, shoved into lockers, and injured by flying textbooks.

She hadn't learned anything, and it was safe to say that wanting to be little hadn't helped.

She had never really _stopped_ being little, she supposed, but her first realization of that fact had come when she was fifteen. She had been at a sleepover, forced to attend by an overbearing Judy, and had been frightened of the dark. The other girls – some even younger than she – had gathered around the television in the darkened bedroom, giggling and screaming loudly over some slasher film or another, and she had felt nothing but pure fear. Even then, she had known enough to recognize that it wasn't an emotion brought on by the movie. The dark in itself had rendered her absolutely catatonic with terror.

Brittany and Santana would never let anything scare her like that. They were so attentive, so loving, that she could hardly convince herself it wasn't a dream. Even with Big Quinn thoughts coursing through her head, Little Quinn knew that she was safe. Here, she was free to be herself. She had never known that such a place existed, _could_ exist. And now here she was.

With Brittany and Santana, she was free to be Little Quinn; she was treated without abuse, spoken to without rage. She was allowed to be the age that she felt safest, was even encouraged to act in the way that made her most comfortable. Here, she was cuddled and held; bathed and dressed and kept warm. She was nourished, entertained, and cared for. A room filled with books and clothing and stuffed animals belonged to her; she had been given a stuffed lamb. Brittany spoke to her kindly, sang to her, and attended to her every need; Santana held her close and ensured that she never felt unsafe. She had her Mommy and her Mami.

Surely, _surely_, this had to be some form of heaven.

Turning her thoughts back to the present, Quinn's gaze followed the slow, easy movements of Brittany's hands as they pulled the brush gently through her hair and then altered their rhythm, braiding. After a long minute, when she had finished braiding the right side and begun on the left, Brittany's eyes drifted up to lock on Quinn's in the reflective glass.

"You're awfully quiet, sweetie," she said softly, keeping her eyes on the littler girl's. "Are you okay?"

"Mommy?" The question was so quiet that it was nearly inaudible, her voice seeming to grow smaller with the word. Brittany felt her heart warm at the sound; she didn't understand how she could possibly have gotten so lucky. She had Santana, which was a miracle in itself, and now she had Quinn, too? She must have done something incredible in a past life to deserve this much happiness. She could almost feel it radiating from her heart.

"What is it, sweetheart?" she answered, deftly tying the end of the left braid and dropping her hands to Quinn's shoulders. The blonde seemed to struggle with herself before answering. Brittany could almost see the internal battle in her eyes.

"Why don't you think I'm weird?" she blurted out at last. On the instant, she suddenly appeared nervous, biting her lip hard as she realized that Big Quinn had made an abrupt appearance.

Brittany smiled gently, bending down to pull the girl into her arms.

"Because you're not," she said simply. Tears sprung to the corners of Quinn's eyes. Brittany sounded so _honest_, as if it there was nothing easier than saying those simple words with all of the sincerity she could muster.

"But . . . I'm diffwent," Quinn protested, slipping back into Little Quinn almost immediately. Around her, Brittany's arms tightened.

"I'm different too, Quinnie," she whispered confidingly. "But that's okay. Not being what people think we should be doesn't make us weird or wrong. We're ourselves. You're _you_, and that's exactly who you always should be. Don't you ever worry that you're wrong."

"That's right," a quiet voice agreed. Both blondes turned in the direction of the sound, maneuvering their way through their embrace to see Santana standing in the doorway, dressed in her own pajamas. "You're both special people. And you're special to me. You're my girls, and I wouldn't want you to change who you are for anything." Brittany's eyes softened at the hitched, slightly cracked words that emotion had broken into fragments. With her eyes, she silently beckoned for Santana to come over. The Latina crossed the room in several swift strides and nestle herself against her girlfriend's side, one arm coming up to wrap around Quinn as she buried her face in Brittany's hair and inhaled.

"I love you," she whispered softly, quiet enough so that only Brittany could hear. She heard the dancer draw a deep breath, and felt her arm squeeze around her tighter in response.

"I know." Santana only nuzzled closer, breathing calmly with a sense of safety and overwhelming love flooding over her. She pulled back only when Brittany spoke again.

"Let's get this sleepyhead into bed, shall we?" Quinn reached upwards, asking to be picked up.

"Quinnie sweepy," she mumbled, eyes already tumbling closed. "Want baba."

"I've got your baba right here, Quinnie," Santana murmured soothingly, extracting herself from Brittany's hair in order to tend to the little girl. As Brittany watched her girlfriend fuss over Quinn, all a bundle of careful movements and soft coos, she felt her heart swell inside her chest, filling up almost to the bursting.

Life couldn't possibly be more beautiful than this.

"We're so lucky, San," she whispered. Santana leaned further into her side, eyes fastened on Quinn.

"I know."

* * *

As Quinn slept, Santana and Brittany cast themselves pell-mell into cleaning and reordering the modest apartment they had called home for so long. For bearing in on nine years they had lived there, and had found the flat to have no shortcomings whatsoever. However, now, hurled abruptly into the midst of motherhood, they would be hard-pressed to reorganize the space in a suitable fashion that fit the needs of everyone equally.

They began with the bedroom; Santana couldn't believe that she was really still in possession of some of the long-forgotten objects that were discovered during the excavation of their walk-in closet. Had her nineteen-year-old self _really_ been into _that?_ Brittany was hardly any better, digging up saved covers of old magazines that were in all truth quite shameful. Upon the reappearance of several old pairs of handcuffs, they conspicuously avoided each other's gaze; Santana stomped outside to the dumpsters with an expression of harried disbelief while Brittany breezed away towards the kitchen to reheat some conveniently forgotten lasagna.

They really needed to make housecleaning a yearly ordeal.

When all evidence of embarrassing past lives had been buried sheepishly beneath old newspapers in the neighbors' dumpster, the two retired to Quinn's bedroom to ensure that everything was in place. The closets were filled to the bursting with new clothes; the rocking chair sat patiently in the corner; stuffed animals and children's books lined the walls. A nightlight in the shape of a ladybug cast a soft glow over the face of the sleeping girl; Quinn lay curled into a tiny ball beneath the covers scattered with pictures of lions and monkeys, thumb corked loosely in her mouth. The stuffed lamb was held close to her chest, tucked beneath her chin.

Santana's weary eyes travelled the room with a sense of calm satisfaction, feeling Brittany's strong arms encircle her from behind.

"It looks so natural, doesn't it?" Brittany breathed out. "Like it just fits." Santana nodded, leaning her head back restfully onto the blonde's shoulder.

"It really does." For a long time they only stood in comfortable silence, content to simply be holding each other. Twice, Santana nearly began to nod off; as she fumbled through her sleepiness for the second time, she remarked to herself how easy it was to just stand there, silent, with nothing on her mind. As dear to her as their friends were, there was just something about Brittany that she had never, ever found in anybody else. It was so easy, so relaxing to be in her presence; there was no need for talk, or for uneasy shifting of limbs. There was never any awkwardness to an embrace.

She knew that it was inexorably cliché, but all Santana cared about was that every time she looked into Brittany's eyes, it felt like coming home.

And now there was Quinn.

Santana would admit it – she knew nothing about raising a child. Granted, she was the top care worker in her field, but eloquent speeches and certificates did not a parent make. She was going to have to do this the hard way, by learning as she went along – a path that she had long ago learned not necessarily to love, but to accept as being the best way to go. And when she got down to it, it was all owed to Brittany. As much as the sixteen-year-old version of herself had hated to admit it, if it hadn't been for Brittany, she would have never learned to accept herself for who she truly was. By age nineteen, she had started to grudgingly accept it, and now?

Now, perhaps, she was finally beginning to see.

But now, she couldn't devote her time and energy to warring with her own riled emotions. She had to learn how to run a home. She needed to learn how to manage so many new areas of her life.

How she would have done it without Brittany, she didn't know. Even when Santana was in a state of great distress, Brittany knew exactly how to calm the situation. She would have no trouble – she would help to run their household with the perfect combination of stability and love.

As long as Brittany was around, Santana didn't have to worry; not even about Quinn.

As if in response to Santana's thoughts, the blonde stirred slightly, letting out a tiny whimper. In a flash, Brittany was at her side, whispering soothing words as she readjusted the blankets around her. Quinn sighed softly, shifted once more, and was still. Santana watched with soft eyes, a feeling of warmth spreading through her at the sight.

She loved her girls so much.


	8. Update: I NEED YOUR HELP GUYS!

Guys, help! I need inspiration! I want so badly to continue this story, but I can't do it without your help. Ideas, please! And I'm sorry this isn't the update you wanted, but the more ideas I get, the faster and better the real update will be. Let me know in the reviews or PM me directly; it doesn't matter. I just need suggestions!


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